The List, Part 9 · Part 1 (1/2)
Next
The List Column 1 Item 15
He mixed some of my cream bleach–the kind for bleaching facial hair– and put it on my eyebrows. I had forgotten about them. They were plucked thin enough as it was. They will be invisible now, I thought. I was right. They are invisible. Which, of course, is what he wanted. At least he didn't shave them off: I could dye them back later. He left me sitting there while the bleach did its work. When he came back and wiped off the bleach it was near dusk. He cleaned away some runny mascara and dried tears too. I had stopped crying and had time to think about what he had done to me. Somehow, it wasn't as traumatic as the first time. I will have to wear a wig.
So big deal, I had to wear a wig before. I can dye my eyebrows back or even just darken them with mascara. Otherwise no-one need know that my body is completely hair- less. I am really no worse off than when he had shaved just my fore- head: I had to wear a wig then, I still have to wear a wig. Shaving my forehead was really the big step. Everything after that was inconse- quential–just finishing an unfinished item on the List. I guess what really bothers me now is not that I have to wear a wig to go out in public. It is that I am now completely bald. I felt (still feel) so NAKED without a wig or anything to cover me. I think that really was the last shred of my dignity.
While he left me sitting on the horse I just stared into space as I thought these thoughts. No, that's not true. I wasn't even thinking, just staring. He used a wrench to loosen the bolts that clamped the dildos in place. I continued to sit and stare, and he gently slipped out the two devices that had held me to the horse. When he helped me stand I instinctively wouldn't look up at him–not because I was still playing the slave role, but because I was ashamed of the way I knew I looked. Remember, I didn't even have any eyebrows anymore. You don't get any more naked than that. He took me by the elbow and led me through his bedroom to the bathroom.
On the way through I glanced at the full-length mirror, but he had covered it with a sheet. The bathroom mirror was covered too. He started a shower and we stepped in. He was gentle with me–although he didn't unlock the cuffs that held my wrists to my thighs. I wanted so much to cover myself; I tried to turn my face to the side as though I could hide. He washed all the makeup off my face and soaped me from head to toe. When I rinsed off, the sensation of the shower on my bald scalp was a surprise. Tingly; it's a nice sensation, but I was in no mood to enjoy nice sensations.
I still couldn't make myself look at him, nor could I imagine he could enjoy looking at me, but he was obviously–prominently–interested. He covered me with handfuls of conditioner, again from head to toe, and told me to do the same to him. I couldn't understand what he meant, since he knew my hands were cuffed to my thighs. "How?" I asked. Long pause. "I mean, would it please you to unlock my hands?" I had almost forgotten. Shaving my head had kind of shocked me out of my role. "Your body is completely covered with conditioner.
Use your body." So I did, rubbing myself against his front, sliding my legs between his, sliding my backside against him, and asking him several times, "Would it please you to put more conditioner on me?" As I rubbed my breasts against his back and then his erection I could tell he was extremely… ready. I know you probably think this was dis- gustingly servile groveling, rubbing myself all over him, especially after what he had just done to me. At this point I felt I had crossed the line between dignified slavery and genuine degradation. I didn't care. Suddenly he spun me around and held me to him and kissed me.
He was really turned on and poured a lot of barely-controlled emotion into those kisses. He guided me out of the shower, and instead of drying us off, he led me straight into the bedroom and literally threw me onto the bed, soaking wet and still dripping with body conditioner. Without preamble he was on top of me and inside. No foreplay, no nothing. He ravished me. It sounds old-fashioned, I know, but there's no other way to describe it. It's not that he was out of control, but my appearance was driving him wild. At one moment I sensed that he tried to slow down and exert his usually excellent control over the timing of our orgasms, but he failed utterly.
We slithered and slipped against each other, and it felt like the smooth sensitive skin around my depilated mons extended over my whole body to form one big eroge- nous zone. In just a couple of minutes–long before I was ready–he came uncontrollably in huge thrusting shuddering gasps. He collapsed onto me, his face slithering into the hollow between my neck and shoulder. To tell the truth, despite the embarrassment at my appearance, even despite not having an orgasm, I derived a genuine sense of warmth (power?) from the fact that I could make him lose control that way, and I knew that it was my totally hairless appearance that did it to him.
I had to imagine how I looked: practically featureless. He had made me into a doll, an undressed department store mannequin, with no hair anywhere. Except that mannequins at least have makeup painted on. Perhaps rather than a mannequin, I looked like an unfinished prototype for a female android (gynoid?). I flashed an image of myself as a kind of sex object/appliance. A sort of real-live plastic inflat- able love-doll, designed for only one function: to satisfy my owner. I dreaded looking in a mirror, but was nonetheless curious.
I was just beginning to get turned on by this sense of power and the really sexy feeling of our slippery bodies against each other when I realized his breathing had returned to normal and he was shrinking inside me. I remember thinking that two thousand years ago, real slaves probably got used like appliances too. He lifted up his head and looked me in the eyes. "What are you feeling?" he asked.
"If it pleases you, I was thinking I would like you to hold me and touch me and tell me that I'm not ugly." [Note from the future: I couldn't write this at the time because J would have read it and known he was being manipulated, but: getting him to touch my bald head was a deliberate exertion of the power I knew my appearance gave me over him.] "But I'm touching you all over right now–as much as it's possi- ble to touch," he said. "I meant… my head. I'm so ashamed of the way I look… I'm scared by all this." He touched my head while I kept my eyes carefully lowered. He didn't have to tell me he thought I was beautiful: I felt him stirring within me almost immediately.
Within a minute I was on my way to a terrific orgasm, made all the more terrific by this sudden vision of myself as a kind of sex-machine that felt nothing, but drove him wild. I kept my face immobile and hid all outward expression of emotion while I squeezed him tightly and ground my hips against him the way I imagined such an appliance/being would. All the while, though, I was secretly building to one humdinger of a climax. I really tried to suppress the first one, and I think I was successful: I kept up the rhythm in my hips right through it without making a sound. I lost control on the second one, though. It was as though he made me have an orgasm despite myself.
Although I am almost never noisy during sex, my breathing grew hoarse and merged with involuntary moans that got louder and louder until there was this other person in the room panting and crying out in near hysteria and it was me. I rolled my head back and forth and spread myself extra wide to pull him deeply inside me. He lifted my legs up onto his shoulders and plunged into me, filling me up. Right in the middle of his orgasm, I reached the peak of mine and for some daft reason I threw my legs apart, my feet in the air. I don't know why, because it didn't feel any better, just different. I just kept going and going, and so did he.
I was moaning and babbling incoherently, nearly having convulsions. I planted my feet on the bed and pushed up, lifting him with my hips and opening myself as fully as I could for him. Finally the exertion drove the breath out of me and I could no longer make any sound beyond faint squeaks every time he thrust. I went passive and limp, no longer capable of any action at all. Finally, he came to a shuddering halt and collapsed onto me a second time. It wasn't the very best sex I had ever had, but it was in the top ten and it certainly was the most exhausting. I was absolutely de- stroyed. It seems it is always different. This time, I simply couldn't move. I felt I had been used. And used up.
"Rode hard and put up wet" as the Indiana farm boys say. Somehow, being used by J didn't bother me. He isn't insensitive, and he doesn't "use" me like that as a habit. In fact, I got kind of a thrill out of being used without regard to my own needs. That's not the way I would want it all the time, but now and then it can… do things to me. Anyway, it was a long time before either of us could do anything other than breathe like steam engines. After he rolled off of me we both drifted off to a near-sleep. I roused myself first and took another shower. The shower knob is chest-high for me.
Fortunately, it is started with a lever you have to push up on–otherwise I wouldn't have been able to reach it with my wrists bound to my thighs. I just stood there soaking under the water until he joined me. We stood together under the stream of water for a while; he went and got the key to my wrists and the leather straps fell to the floor of the shower. I think the water and conditioner had stretched them anyway. They had stained my wrists yellow-brown. When we started toweling off, I remembered my head. He had bound my wrists and covered the mirrors to stop me from seeing or even touching my scalp, so I asked for permission.
"If it pleases you, could I touch my head now?" He thought about it and said yes, but I still couldn't look at myself in the mirror. I was almost afraid to touch myself there. I ran my hand over the top of my scalp. I was (am) smooth as the proverbial baby's bottom. I didn't have a mirror, but I looked into his face as I felt my head. You may find it hard to believe (I did), but after that one gesture, just touching my head, he wanted me again. I could see him rising and neither of us really even wanted sex again. It's almost like an aphrodisiac with him. I knelt and took him in my mouth, and within seconds he was rock- hard and ready for a third round.
I would almost have preferred to give him a third orgasm orally, I was so exhausted, but I'm not sure I would have had the strength for that either. Fortunately, before we really got started again he stopped me. "Wait," he said, "lets give it a few more minutes…" I stopped, but he was seriously horny again. I think his psychol- ogy is stronger than his physiology. I sprinkled talcum powder on both of us and spread it around. His erection didn't subside. When I put talc on my naked scalp he went and got my wig–the long black one– from his bedroom and told me to put it on. I don't think he could take the sight of me like that any more.
This is a new thing for me, and will take some getting used to: the right kind of submission can bring a new kind of power. By paying very close attention to his reactions and needs, I can learn by experiment the kind of submissive behavior that he wants. It is clear that the control I can exert on him by behaving in just the right way is subtle, but nonetheless nearly as great as the control he exerts over me. Perhaps this is something that I should not be writing, since he will read it, but it is something I think will bring us closer if he understands it. [Note from the future: the next few paragraphs are edited and expanded heavily from the original.
My manipulation of his reactions, had he understood them completely at the time, would have interfered with our relationship. Now that we are finished with Column 1 and I control this document, I can make these changes.] The next few moments taught me the value of not over-using that control. "If it would please you, I could put my makeup on now," I said. I think he saw the interruption as a welcome distraction from an impend- ing (but premature and exhausting) third session of lovemaking. That was what I wanted him to think. With appropriately downcast eyes, I promised not to remove my wig or try to look at myself in a mirror if he would allow me to bring my makeup into his bathroom.
I have to use a small mirror to put on my makeup, I said, but he could watch me and make sure I didn't sneak a peek at my head. Besides, I had my wig on. There is a small table in his bathroom. I put my makeup box on it and looked in it for my small hand mirror. He had removed it. The mirrors in my bathroom had been covered, too. He is thorough. But he gave me a small mirror to use. My face looks just plain weird without eyebrows. Well, not totally without, but you have to look very closely to see that they are there. Without any makeup I really looked like a blank canvas.
I thought I would look like I was on chemotherapy, but my face was flushed from the shower, so I looked wholesome, healthy and pink. Except…. While he put on some clothes in the next room, I put on a founda- tion and a very pale coverup with the faintest touch of blush. Next, heavy eyeshadow and mascara (I know he likes that). Then I put a shot across his bow, as they say in the movies. "There's more of me to cover with makeup now. I can continue without the mirror if you will help me. If it would please you," I said, turning the mirror face down. I didn't look up–I just waited for him to react. "Okay," he said.
"May I take the wig off now?" "Okay." "Tell me if I miss anywhere." I put foundation over my entire scalp and followed it with the same pale makeup while he watched. Just a touch of the same blusher high up on my forehead. I could see his erection was still going strong, straining against his pants. Maybe stronger, it was hard to tell. "Would you put some more blusher on? This is new to me and I can't tell where it would look good. Maybe some on my temples or the top of my head?" I said. "If it would please you," I added. I knew it would. Another shot to take the wind out of his tops'l, me hearties. Arrrrh.
When he had finished, I put the wig back on as if nothing had happened, but something had: he had to adjust himself inside his pants, and I knew I was touching some very sensitive nerves. Perhaps not wisely, I pushed it even further. Instead of my usual lip gloss, I put on a flesh-colored blemish cover that comes in a twist-out tube like a lipstick. I thought that was kind of in keeping with my new "featureless" look, since it is almost the same color as my skin. He was watching, and despite the unusual look it gave me, he didn't tell me to change it. He seemed mesmerized. I was loving it. So I gave my face the piece de resistance.
My invisible eyebrows gave me the liberty to put my eyebrows wherever I wanted. I sketched in razor-thin eyebrows that had those high arches like movie stars from the 1930's, but with an inspired touch: where they neared the bridge of my nose, I turned them upward slightly instead of down. This gave me a very interesting look–as though I were either very worried or possibly even in pain. It's amazing how expressive eyebrows are. And pants, too. I stood and walked into the bedroom with my eyes carefully down, but with as much sensuality as I could squeeze into four or five steps. He followed me. I gave him another broadside.
I knelt in front of him and, keeping my eyes down, asked in an almost inaudible whisper, "Would it please… my Master… if I wore my boots tonight?" He cleared his throat and said, "Yes," also in a (rather hoarse) whisper. I put them on and walked over to the bedside table with my back to him. I know that my behind looks great when I walk in heels. He has told me so a hundred times. It has something to do with those little creases under my cheeks and the way they shift with each step. Of course I exaggerated that for his benefit as I walked. His masts were shot away and he was ready for boarding. As it were. Avast me heart- ies. I'll never understand men.
Back in Indiana a pair of well filled short shorts would cause an entire room full of male eyes to turn as one, and after she had passed there would be unanimous hooting, foot stomping, and table pounding. The simplest and most predictable things turn them on, but if you asked me what it is about J that turns me on, I couldn't tell you. Well, I could, but it's so complex and personal it wouldn't mean anything to you. His eyes maybe. I can go all soft and squirmy sometimes when he just looks at me with those icy blue nordic eyes. But then I've seen more beautiful eyes on guys that did nothing for me. I guess it's the whole package that attracts me.
The point being, it's too complex to reduce to a formula. On the other hand, I would be willing to bet that almost all men would be turned on by the way I walked then, not just the Indiana Clampetts. I'm like most women, and I complain about how hard it is to find a good man, how we have to wait for them to come to us rather than going out and hog-tying the one we want, so it's going to sound odd when I say this: Gals, in some ways we have it easy when it comes to attracting men. It is something you could learn from a three-page instruction book even if you were from another planet. If they only knew how predictable they are.
High heels, tight short skirts, dark eye makeup, all that kind of stuff. Sounds sleazy, I know, but it comes with a 100% guarantee. But, you say, that kind of look attracts the wrong kind of man. You're half right: it attracts all kinds of men, right kind or wrong. It's up to us to sort 'em out. Their tastes are simple: they like either slinky black or virgin- al white–but virginal white with no underwear, at least metaphorical- ly. You see, the most important part is that the poor dear has to KNOW it's just for him and him alone. Their little egos need that most of all. And their capacity for believing that is infinite.
Even better: they like to believe that most men would overlook you because you are shy and that they alone were discerning enough to have "discovered" you. The poor dears are so pathetically eager to believe this that once they have got the idea in their heads, no amount of evidence to the contrary will dislodge it. You're going to think I'm a cynic. I'm not. I love men. They're easily the best aphrodisiac. And just because they're easy to under- stand (some parts) doesn't mean you can't love 'em. We might be initially attracted to them for all kinds of complex reasons: because they are good looking, because they are powerful, because they are mysterious, smart, talented, whatever.
All these are strengths, and we respect them because they are strong, but we love them because they are weak, and love makes the choice. And when you get right down to it, their major weakness is how easy they are to please. The old Sampson and Delilah routine. Just push the right buttons. I could almost write a how-to manual; it could be full of simple step-by-step instructions. But what does your man have to do to please you? It's a lot more complex, isn't it? And the poor things are without a clue. I almost pity them. But then on the other hand they don't have to put up with our monthly friend, do they? And they run the world, by the way. Ah, but that way lies madness.
The List, Part 9 · Part 1 (1/2)
Next
