The List, Part 9 · Part 2 (2/2)
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I like being a woman, but I can't think for too long about how unfair it is. Being around doctors all day drives the point home too often as it is: they have egos the size of small planets, some of them. The modest ones. Large planets, the rest of them. Most of the time, I can live my day-to-day existence and not think about it at all, and then some subtle realization will hit me. I was listening to a call-in talk-radio program featuring a family psychologist and a thought occurred to me: have you ever heard a MAN ask for advice on how to combine a career and marriage? Ever? Even once? We women write books about it. Books! What does that imply? Don't think about it.
It just isn't very healthy to step back and look at the overall picture too often. Aldous Huxley once gave some advice on that; I can't remember which of his novels it was in. He said that if you are ever sitting at your desk, doing whatever it is you do for a living, and you begin to wonder if this particular activity is what nature or God had intended as the culmination of three and a half billion years of biological evolution, then you must be very careful, because you will sense a bottomless pit opening beneath your desk and you will feel your chair tilting forward and yourself sliding into it.
The only cure is to immediately put aside all such thoughts and concentrate on alphabetizing the papers in front of you. I feel that way if I think too long about the monumental unfair- ness that being a woman imposes. And I feel that way almost daily, now, as I slip deeper and deeper into this thing J and I are doing. Not the unfairness, the panicky sliding out-of-control sensation. If I step back and look at what I have done to myself by letting this happen, I feel a growing sense of panic. And an urge to alphabet- ize my life; get it back in order, even though it's simpler now than it has ever been.
Let's say I actually put on a wig and dye my eye- brows back and get a job at the hospital. I have a good C. V.; it wouldn't be a problem to do that. But every day at work, I would be masquerading as a normal person, and every time I came home I would have this totally different life. I am completely isolated from the world I used to know at home, and from the "real" world here. And I know nobody other than J that I can discuss this with, except the friendly folks down at A. S. B., and that's not really an option since I am determined to remain a "lurker". Maybe Huxley was wrong, though.
It may not be fair to look back on your life and ask 'is this what it was all leading toward?' Maybe a life can't be judged by the present moment any more than a piece of music can be judged by the final note. He was right about the cure, though: Don't think about it. Forget the big picture; think moment to moment, since that's the way you have to live it anyway. In any case, I feel more comfortable alphabetizing than philosophizing, so I'll forget the big picture and go back to writing about the bedroom.
Sorry about the soliloquy. -*- I was starting to feel pretty sexy again, especially since I knew for an absolute undeniable fact that even though we'd had sex twice in the last hour, I knew exactly what to do to MAKE him give me another orgasm if I wanted one (or two). Which I did. And I had no inhibitions whatsoever about asking for exactly what I wanted. All I had to do was ask in the right way. From the bedside table I took the K/Y jelly and the vibrator that he had used on my rear.
Still keeping my eyes down, I slunk over and knelt in front of him and said, "If it would please my Master, we could make love with this inside me, and you might feel the vibration and enjoy… using me more." (Good touch, that `using' huh?) The best sex yet was when I was on top in the shower with the dildo in my rear. I wanted to try it with the vibrator. Gosh, Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. Or Indiana, even. Shhh. Pay no attention to that woman behind the screen. No, I'm not crazy, but everyone should know the complete script for at least one movie. Funny. I made the transition to being able to address him as "Master" in the most ironic way.
I was willing to do anything (ANY- THING) to keep him from shaving my head. I called him "Master" for the first time when he was beginning to shave me, and once it was over, I was too proud to stop. He might have thought I had only started calling him Master to stop the shaving. And now I'm stuck with it. How's that for twisted? Too proud to NOT humiliate myself? [ NFTF: That's the end of my editorial changes. The rest of Item 15 is as I first wrote it.] I knelt on the bed with shoulders on the mattress and my rear up in the air toward him, ready to accept the vibrator. I was feeling pretty horny myself at that moment.
I was also being a little daring, and I felt excited and exhilarated by it. Without turning it on, he began inserting it. He insinuated it into me with much more care and sensitivity than your average gynecologist. Of course a vibrator has a little more erotic content than a speculum. Carefully, I rolled over on my back and settled myself in the appropriate position: spread- eagled, but this time voluntarily. But as soon as he had entered me, he rolled us over so I was on top. He held the vibrator in and moved it in time with our lovemaking, but he didn't turn it on until my first orgasm started.
I was trying to hold back and play the ice-queen like I had before, but my body just started kind of fluttering inside all by itself. It's kind of special to have your body do something all by itself without your help–I don't know why. Just as I finished, he started. I love to watch his face as he climaxes. His eyes go all unfocused and he becomes completely withdrawn, self absorbed, and vulnerable. Non- simultaneous orgasms have their strong points: you get to watch. Afterwards, with me still on top and the vibrator off (but still in), we were just floating there on the bed. I was still wearing my wig, and I was in a really mischievous mood.
It's not a slave's place to torture her master, but I don't get the chance very often. I shifted to sit astride his hips; he had gone limp and he almost slipped out at the motion. He likes looking up at me –especially at my breasts–in that position. I began stroking myself. A little gentle persuasion and my nipples were erect. I slipped my other hand down and began stroking between my legs. I hammed it up a bit, biting my lip and moaning–aided I'm sure by the worried/pained/surprised expression of my painted-on eyebrows (I look like I'm in pain if my face is relaxed; pleasure/pain if I open my mouth and gasp a little; pained surprise if I open my eyes all the way.
I've been practicing in front of the mirror; these are expressions that don't come naturally to me, yet they better reflect my actual feelings than my natural facial expressions would. Is that really so deceitful?) I could feel him stirring weakly inside me, but not enough. In a "moment of ecstacy" I brushed my hand back over my face and accidentally-on-purpose knocked off the wig. "I'm sorry, Master, it was an accident." I said, and scrabbled to reach it and put it back on. After I had replaced it he reached up and took it off again. I felt him growing quickly inside me. What a feeling of power.
He tells me that four times in one day is a record that he hasn't equaled since he was a little boy just learning about sex. On the whole, though, I don't think four times in as many hours–or even four times in one day (or three, even)–is enjoyable for either of us. He was enthusiastic, but even with the vibrator it was more an exercise in total exhaustion than eroticism. I discovered that my new ability to force arousal in him should not be squandered on private ego trips unless there is some physical return–otherwise it is just overkill for both of us. Maybe we're getting old. I'm twenty-eight. But I read at the thirty-two year old level.
Still, the feeling of utter depletion was delicious that evening. I'll definitely keep the wig on whenever he's home, though, unless he tells me to take it off. "It's those pesky hormones…." Thanks, Ma. I still haven't seen myself in the mirror. That night he had me sleep with him so I didn't try to steal a peek at myself. I slept without the wig, though: I took it off after he turned the lights out, and snuggled into the crook of his arm, putting my bald head on his shoulder. As I drifted off to sleep, he had another erection…. (;-)
The List Column 1 Item 16
He must have felt that I needed a bit more controlling after that episode. I kind of overdid it and took advantage, sort of, even though I remained submissive. Not that I actually liked having my head shaved. He had me shave myself the next morning without a mirror. I had to feel for the stubble with my hand and go over my head until I felt totally smooth. It is kind of an erotic feeling. My nipples were erect when I was through. Hmmm. At this point, he started doing something new to me: putting an artificial tanning lotion all over my body. It's on the List, but I won't be able to leave the house until it wears off.
Actually, he doesn't put it on me any more: he has ME do it every morning and every evening while he watches, and I'm under orders to do it once at mid- day as well, even when he's not at home. But that morning, after I had shaved myself, he started this tanning routine without telling me what he was doing. The first thing he did was to put another one of his handyman specials on me: stocks. Simple, but well-crafted (varnished, sanded smooth, etc.) and func- tional. Two boards, hinged at one end, locked together at the other, held my hands and my neck. This he clipped to an overhead chain so I had to just stand there and wait. He began by smearing this lotion all over my body: scalp to toes.
He didn't tell me what it was; I assumed at first it was another skin conditioner. After I was completely covered, he brought out gauze bandages and dipped them in the stuff and began wrapping my body like a mummy. He really wants it to have a strong effect, because I was positively marinated in the stuff. He started at my ankles and worked his way up each leg independently, dipping the bandages, wringing out the excess lotion, and wrapping it tightly around me. God only knows what he spent on lotion and bandages, but he had emptied enough bottles of lotion to fill a largish casserole dish. I kept asking him what he was doing, and he just kept ignoring me, not even threatening a gag.
It took him a while to work out how to bandage my crotch and hips, but he managed. The bandages around my waist were tight enough to be a corset. He crisscrossed my chest, covering my breasts and finished off with only my hands, head, and feet uncovered. These, he just slathered in another dose of lotion. Up to this point I just stood there docile and patient because I didn't know what he was doing to me. I began to get nervous, though, when he covered me with saran wrap. This time, he wrapped me in true "mummy" style, with my legs held tightly together.
When he released me from the stocks, I struggled weakly against him, but I was really quite helpless without the use of my legs, and gave in after only token resistance. He wrapped my arms and hands tightly against my sides. I had always thought of saran wrapping as rather flimsy stuff, but it is amazing how strong a couple of layers can be. I was cocooned and completely immobilized from the neck down. I could wriggle a little, but after he put me on my back on the bed I would have had real trouble even rolling myself over. He carried me into the living room and laid me out on a folding lounger that he brought in from the yard. A little duct tape, and I was there for the duration.
Only at this point did he tell me what he had done, by just showing me a bottle of the lotion. When it dawned on me that this wasn't just a new kind of skin conditioner, I began to struggle inside the wrappings. "That's not fair," I whined. "The month is almost over and I will be stained by this stuff for weeks after!" I felt like when the month was over, everything should somehow magically go back to the way it was before. Silly of me, I know. My hair will be months growing back. But then, I wasn't really sure I wanted the month to be over quite yet. He explained the List to me once again. There is no fine print, no special clauses, no exceptions.
Nothing about what I will look like after the term of the contract has expired. Just a list of what he can do during the month. He took some more lotion and rubbed it into my face, neck, and scalp. Trussed up the way I was, I couldn't even wipe it off against the lounger: my shoulders were above the level of the back. I wiped a little off on my shoulder, but he just put more on. He turned on the TV and left me there for hours. I tried to convince him that I had to pee, to no avail. He didn't believe me and told me to go right ahead. I didn't. After a while I began to feel pretty icky inside the wrappings. When I started to feel hot he just turned up the air conditioning.
I really can't stand Phil Donoghue. He's so icky. There was nothing else on. When he finally decided to release me, he first made me take some tanning pills. Knowing him, it was the maximum dosage. I've seen them advertised in Cosmopolitan, (Oops. Are feminists supposed to admit they read Cosmo? Or just claim we only read it for the articles? Hardly…. Okay: I only read it for the pictures.) I don't like taking pills, even though they are probably harmless (I think they are just carotene). I don't mind smoking a little grass now and then, but I don't like pills, for some reason. Even these. You would think a nurse would have more confidence in medical technology.
I've see a few doctors get in trouble over them, though. Anyway, I have to keep up the pills until the last day. He has threatened me with a sunlamp in addition if he's not satisfied with the depth of my "tan", so he'll have me brown one way or another. I'm not going to fight it. On the last day, I intend asking if we can keep going with Column One. At least I feel that way right now. At this writing, I'm a "nice deep" rich mahogany yellow-brown. It does NOT look natural, despite what they say about the new artificial tanning lotions. The second it starts to wear off, I just know I'll look blotchy and jaundiced. It's better for my skin than the sun, though. I think.
I learned something about myself, though. I don't know how to say this without sounding weird. I like being "changed." That summarizes it, but it's an oversimplified trivialization of my feelings. When I look in the mirror and see something, someone, different than what I expected something happens. The shock of seeing myself, I don't know, distorted, has an erotic (?) impact on me. I like being frightened in this way, sort of. Frightened is the wrong word. Horrified maybe? That's too strong a word. I have been… distorted… by J in a number of ways since this month started.
The most shocking transformation was when he shaved my head, but even seeing my face distorted by the ball gag gave me a secret thrill. The artificial tan, as I saw it gradually creeping toward darker and darker colors, made me realize what is going on in my head. Even my fanatical attitude toward makeup is symptomatic of this weirdness. If I could experience more extreme changes–as long as they weren't irrevocable–I would do so. I'll let my mind wander through that psychological garden for a minute:. I'd like to try having oriental eyes. I think the epicanthic fold is sexy.. I'd like to be able to change my weight and height. I don't mean to "improve" myself, either.
I'd like to turn myself into a Junoesque near-freak. How about measurements of 45-28-45 on my five foot two and a half frame?. I'd like to try an all over body tatoo. Face and all. A pierced nostril is a must, someday, I think.. If only cosmetic breast enhancement could be safe and reversible without surgery. I'd like to see what I could do to blow J's mind. There was a girl in my high school gym class with, well, very pointy breasts, prominent, swollen looking nipples. I thought they were attractive (she didn't). I wonder how big they could be and still look like breasts? Or how I'd look with none?. I'd like to try being taller. Over six feet.. I'd like to try being shorter.
In a SF fantasy called "Some- thing Wicked" by Ray Bradbury, a beautiful woman, transformed into a circus dwarf by the evil ringmaster, was "rescued" from her plight by the young hero of the story. I would like to be rescued like that. Over and over.. I would like to try being a man, of course. Who wouldn't. I think I might be Frank Langella…. Who wouldn't.. I'd like to try and seduce J with the body of a pubescent 12- year old girl, but with him knowing I had the mind of a woman. Sort of like the hundred year old young-girl-vampire in the Anne Rice story "Interview with a Vampire.". I'd like to be covered with short soft catlike fur. And have a tail? Or snake scales.
Or pupils with vertical slits like a cat. Imagine the look on the bank teller's face when I took off my sun- glasses. There was a circle in Dante's Inferno in which the punishment was having your head put on backwards. I'd like to have my upper torso put on backwards. Imagine having frontal anal sex. I would be horrified to look in the mirror, but it would be a delicious horror. If I knew it could be undone. Am I weird, or what?. What would it be like to have a switch that J could use to turn off all my voluntary motor functions? The ultimate bondage. What would sex be like? Total absolute submission…..
Sometimes I feel like I would like to scream during sex, it feels so good, but I am too midwestern to actually do it. What if I could be a mute, so it didn't matter if I tried my utmost to scream? I once read a Fu Manchu style mystery in which a young Chinese woman was made into a mute: the nerves to her vocal cords were severed to keep her from giving testimony. That would be erotic bondage if it could be temporary. Are you getting the idea? Being CHANGED, voluntarily or involun- tarily, is an erotically charged experience for me, and not necessari- ly changed for the better, either. I discussed this insight into my psyche with J at about this point.
I think it might have influenced his subsequent behavior. He did things to me, erotically charged things. -*- At that point in time, though, the effects of this tanning regimen were still minimal. I still hadn't even seen what I looked like completely shaved, except for a weak and fleeting reflection in still water in my sink. He made sure I didn't try to use even a makeshift mirror (like the side of the toaster oven; I tried that). After the first dose of tanning lotion I spent the afternoon in the black thong (with a wig on) and wearing chains locked around my wrists and ankles (no leather cuffs, just chains looped around and the links locked together with the little locks).
I just lounged around reading. And clinking. That afternoon as the sun was going down I went for a walk around the yard with him. We strolled and did a little weeding together, me in my thong and chains. That evening he had me shave a second time to be sure I was smooth. He told me I was finally going to see what I looked like. Despite the fact that I was curious, I perversely told him I didn't want to see myself. Even now, days later, I feel alternately very sexy and more than a little weird about all this.
The List, Part 9 · Part 2 (2/2)
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