The List, Part 11 · Part 1

The List, Part 11 · Part 1 (1/2)
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After dinner, I tried something different–something I wanted to do before the routine with the tanning lotion changed me too much. Actually, I was probably unnaturally pale before, anyway, but whatev- er. I had about average coloration at that point. I tried a new concept in makeup. I painted big artificial blue 'baby doll' eyes on my eyelids, with large false eyelashes glued on my upper eyelids, and painted-on lower lashes, with thirties-style eyebrows. (I've tried just about all styles of eyebrows: simple straight ones, surprised, pained, emotionless, even slanting Mr. Spock and heavy Mariel Hemingway ones). I also painted on very artificial cupid-bow lips and over-rouged my cheeks.

With my eyes shut, I looked a bit like a wide-eyed Raggedy-Anne doll. I covered my nipples and navel with round patches of surgical tape (the kind that looks a bit like tissue paper) and covered it with makeup blended into my skin. I made myself look as much like a department-store mannequin as possi- ble. Nipple-less, navel-less, expressionless. Blonde wig. When I came out of my bedroom he wasn't looking in my direction, so I stood stock still in a department store pose with my eyes shut and my hand on the back of the sofa for balance. I was completely nude. I don't know how he reacted, if he was startled, or what. I bet I looked like a mannequin, though. He didn't say anything.

But he did something. To me. He led me into the bathroom and sat me down at my makeup table and removed the makeup from my face. Then he stood me in front of the full-length mirror with my wrists in straps over my head. I thought at first he didn't like what I had done and was going to punish me for it in some way, but I was wrong. He took more of the surgical tape and taped my nether lips together, covering my sex completely. He blended more makeup into the surrounding skin; I already was hairless down there, but he made it look as though I was sexless as well. "What are you going to do to me?" I asked. This question has become almost a formula with us.

No matter how nervous I am about what he's doing to me, I'm not supposed to ask it, and I always do anyway, and his response is always disciplinary. This time, it was adhesive tape over my mouth. Securely over my mouth. I tried to open my lips after a while, and couldn't. I watched while he cut little ovals of tape and put them over my eyes, one at a time, taping them shut. He was thoughtful enough to protect my eye- lashes from the tape with a bit of kleenex, but my eyes were taped securely shut.

Then he reapplied the makeup job on the outside of the tape (I figured this out later as I was taking it off and cleaning up): Cupid-bow lips, big baby-doll eyes with false lashes, the whole nine yards. He put cotton in my ears, held in with beeswax. I had only two operating senses: touch and smell. He put a drop of sandalwood oil on each shoulder and somewhere on the tape on my face, and for the next few hours, that was all I could smell. When he unhooked me from the ceiling, I was completely disorient- ed, and would have fallen if he hadn't supported me. I felt very odd. He put me on the bed with my wrists strapped together and held over my head at the headboard.

I could have gotten the tape off my face if he weren't watching, but he had too much of an advantage. When I tried to reach my face with my hands, he pulled my ankles until my arms were extended above my head again. Then he made love to me. I turned my face blindly from side to side, trying to figure out what he was going to do next, but he kept surprising me.

During the foreplay he used partly-melted ice cubes, feathers, clothespins, a snap with a leather shoelace here and there (I know it doesn't qualify as a whip with you hardcore ASBers, but it was the first time for me for all of this stuff, and it hurt–mostly because I didn't know what it was and from the surprise of not knowing what was coming next, or when). I screamed several times under the tape. Each time I was rewarded with a loving kiss on the offended spot, or a stroke of an ice cube. He peeled the tape off my nipples. Slowly. That was excruciating. Then off my nether lips. Likewise. I was pretty excited by that time. I can only imagine how I looked.

Later when I took off one eye patch, I realized I must have had a vapid, vacuous, and silly but expression- less appearance no matter what I was feeling behind that mask. More foreplay with the ice cubes on my nipples and nether lips. During my second orgasm (almost always the best) he had me on top and he slipped an ice cube into my behind. I was too far gone at the time to even protest, but it was a terrific orgasm–the second became a plateau from which the third orgasm launched. I don't know how to put it, but it was like an orgasm on top of (added to?) an orgasm rather than two consecutive ones. I know, ice cubes are probably tame stuff for you. It was new to me, though.

I realize now (after reading the posting in a.s.b.) that this entire List must seem like the inexperienced fumbling of a couple of virgins. Especially to the guy that walked around with thumbtacks stuck in him. Yow. I feel more than a little embarassed that you might read this, not so much out of shame for what we did, but because we are such vanilla softies. This is really just plain bondage–is there such thing as vanilla bondage? I haven't really experienced any serious pain (except that gag is still a killer). Spanking is on the List, but I don't think J is any more interested in inflicting pain than I am in experiencing it. Besides, spanking isn't real pain either.

I came close to some serious stuff yesterday, though. I was really afraid. I'm coming to that. -*- We made love the following night after what must be the strangest conversation on record. I'll try to reconstruct it. On his instructions, I had prepared myself with the usual shower, shave, conditioner, makeup, wig, etc., leather cuffs and collar, too. Now, don't get the wrong idea when I tell you this, because I still hate having my head shaved, but it's done and can't be undone except by many months of waiting. Shaving my own head now just delays regrowing it one more day, so it's not a big deal. If that seems I'm being too logical and unemotional, that's not true.

I do feel emotion- al about it. If I could have my hair back right now, I'd do it, List or not. But I can't, so I am experimenting with this new look–just for a few days–before Column One is over and I can start growing it back. So what I'm trying to tell you is that when I shaved, it was an erotic experience. It still is. After a shower, I shaved my underarms and legs (I didn't need depilating). Then I covered my scalp with his fluffy white shaving cream so it looked like I had short, white hair. I "revealed" myself with the razor. Don't ask. I can't explain.

When I read over that last paragraph it doesn't capture the eroticism of becoming so extremely naked, but for me it is an erotic process. Anyway. Back to the tale. He had lit two candles in the bed alcove and was waiting for me. He just started right in with the foreplay. I was unable to get into it, even though preparing myself for sex is always a turn-on for me. Anticipation is half the game for me. I don't like spontaneity. Surprises, yes, but I have to know that he has thought them out well in advance and planned the things he does to me. I like my spontaneity to be well planned. But I just couldn't get into the foreplay.

The worst part was that he knew it–and he seemed to be expecting me to have trouble, too. He was even pleased, I think. "What's the problem," he said. He had that smug smile that says "I already know the answer to this question." I hate that smile. "I don't know, Master," I said, knowing perfectly well. "I think you do," he said, knowing perfectly well I knew. "No, really…" I said, pretending I didn't know anyone knew anything. "Why did you put on the cuffs and collar?" he asked. Good ques- tion. "I thought you might have wanted to use them…?" Stupid answer. He just looked at me. "Would it please you if I put on something else?" I asked, trying to change the subject. Stupid question.

He just looked at me some more. I was floundering. I could see he didn't believe me. "You wanted to be bound. Admit it." "No! Really! I don't know what it is with me tonight," I protest- ed. "… Master," I added. "I just can't seem to…" "You can't seem to get into it because this is 'vanilla sex,'" he said. "Admit it." Of course it was true, but I couldn't admit it. I thought it would spoil it if I admitted I liked something that I was supposed to be fighting every step of the way. It takes away an essential ingredi- ent of bondage if you don't fight it, and you can't fight it if you admit you want it–especially to yourself. Can you?

"We've reached another milestone here and you just haven't realized it yet," he said. "The illusion that you are resisting me is your last fig leaf. I'm not going to allow you even that shred of dignity. Tonight I'm going to make you admit you want everything I do to you. I'll even make you beg for more. You'll voluntarily give up even the illusion of resistance. Drawing on my fine command of the english language, I said nothing. He got out that wonderful little vibrator and put it in me and chained my wrists to the bedposts. While I was squirming on the bed he ran ropes through the eyes in the ceiling and pulled my ankles high in the air and wide apart.

My rear end was nearly pulled off the bed. He went to work on my rear opening with another lubricated vibrator, beginning by working his fingers into my opening until I was relaxed enough to accept it. With nothing to press against, it was hard for me to stimulate myself. My squirming became more and more frantic. I remember thinking that this isn't exactly going to wrench a confession from me. I just got hotter and hotter. He pressed against the front of the vibrator, helping to bring me closer to a climax. He watched me very closely, alternately pressing and waiting, pressing and waiting. I came to the very edge of an orgasm. I was teetering at the very top, panting and heaving.

I held my legs straight. My thighs were quiver- ing, I flexed them so hard trying to come. "I'm not going to let you have an orgasm until you beg for it," he said. He took out a small bottle and held it up. "This is an oral anesthetic. It is benzocaine–not clove oil. It lasts just a few minutes. Every time you get close to an orgasm, I will put a little more on." It was the same anesthetic I had used earlier (ages ago) to suppress my gag reflex. I knew it would work perfectly on sensitive membranes–that's what it's intended for. I watched in dismay as he took out the vibrator and put a dab of it on my clitoris. He massaged it in, and put a liberal dose on my labia.

After a couple of applications, I could barely feel him touch- ing me at all. By lifting my head I could just see the tops of my nether lips. They get kind of swollen when I am turned on. In fact, they were engorged and dripping. I could literally feel moisture trickle between my legs. But I couldn't feel my clitoris; I couldn't feel anything. I watched him put the vibrator back between my numbed lips. He pressed it solidly against me, and I felt the vibration in my hips, but I was too numb to feel the vibrator itself. He kept watch- ing. I was still panting, still very turned on, but groaning with disappointment every time I strained to recapture that edge….

After a few minutes he took a washcloth and wiped my clitoris free of the anesthetic, but I was still numb. "I can keep this up all night," he said. "Or, I could wash off the anesthetic, gag and blindfold you, and tie you suspended from the ceiling. Which would you rather?" "Ceiling?" I said. "Look up. See the extra rings?" I did. there were several new eye-rings in the ceiling. I had noticed them already. "I will put a harness on you–one you haven't seen yet, and suspend you from the ceiling by it. You will be floating above the bed, blindfolded, gagged, and spread-eagled. And you won't be able to stop having orgasms. "But you'll have to beg me for it.

You'll have to convince me that you want it." He was still pressing on the front of the vibrator. I was begin- ning to feel it again. I tried to keep from reacting: maybe I could steal a secret orgasm. I wasn't exactly on the edge, but I could just barely see the beginning of an orgasm peeking around the corner when he took it out again, suddenly. It was almost a shock for the vibra- tion to stop. Then he put it back in. He took nearly a half hour of teasing to bring me to the edge again. With the control over me the anesthetic gave him, it was much easier for him to keep me on the edge.

He kept me quivering for another fifteen minutes, letting me rest just enough to keep me from exhaustion, but not enough to let me cool off. "Alright!" I said, finally, just as he was opening the bottle again for a second dose. I'd had enough. "Alright what?" he said. "You win," I said sullenly, "you were (pant) right." "About what?" "Me," I said. Pant, pant. "Say it." (Pant-pant, calming a little) "I want to be tied up," I said flatly. &quot

The List, Part 11 · Part 1 (1/2)
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