The List, Part 7 · Part 2

The List, Part 7 · Part 2 (2/2)
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hy did it have to be my hair?" And then I would start crying again under the hood. "I think I'll keep you like this for a few hours. As a pet," he whispered into my ear.

As he stroked me through the lycra, his caress- es became more overtly sexual. There is something especially sexy about the way his fingernails slide over the fabric; when he strokes my sex that way, sliding down my stomach to between my legs, I can't help catching my breath. It's like the good part of being tickled without the bad part that makes me laugh uncontrollably. It drives my breath out and my stomach muscles contract involuntarily. But he stopped. I couldn't read or watch T. V., it was too early to sleep, I couldn't cook, eat, or even walk around very easily. There was nothing I could do in that getup but try and seduce him into taking it off. So what the hell, I tried.

I could feel him getting hard as I rubbed my body against him, and I was getting pretty steamy too. But I still hadn't forgiven him. This was the only thing he had ever done to me for which I felt resentment that lasted more than a few minutes. Up to then, anyway. He pushed me back, and said, "I think I'll take a shower." He got up and left me on the bed, and I heard the shower start running. I was still turned on, and I knew he was, too. I felt my way into the bathroom and sat on the closed seat of the john while he took his shower. I had a plan: get the suit wet and he'll let me take it off to dry it. I went and stood at the entrance to the shower. "Hi." he said.

"The bodysuit needs washing here," I said, indicating my sex. "And when I cried my nose ran inside this hood. Can I come in?" "Sure." He gave me the soap and I began washing, getting the bodysuit thoroughly soaped and soaked. Thumbless, I had to hold it with both hands. I switched to the shampoo. The hot water made the bodysuit relax and stretch; it felt as though it were melting and loosening on my body. In seconds it wasn't tight at all. Wet, it was a perfect and comfortable fit. I must be a very sensual person, but despite my abysmal mood I got a kind of erotic pleasure out of the feeling of the wet bodysuit moving and relaxing against my skin as I stood soaking under the shower.

When I was through, I asked if I could still be his "pet" without the bodysuit. He said no, and gave me a towel. I dried myself as best I could, and he turned on the hair dryer for me to finish after he left. It took forever to get dry. I had to hold it with both hands again, and my hair was still wet under the hood when I finished, but the bodysuit had become a perfect fit, exactly snug and even all over. He had left me there alone in the bathroom, so I felt my way through the bedroom and hall to the living room where I could hear him moving about. Still unused to my hair, I wanted to get the bodysuit off to look at myself again.

I was fascinated and shocked by my appearance, the same way I would have been had I seen an Elizabethan hairstyle on someone else. Even more shocked, because it was on me. I wanted to look and I didn't want to look. Fools and angels rushing in and fearing to tread again. I wasn't in pain, though; the bodysuit isn't at all like the gag. It's just disconcerting not to know anything that's going on. And frankly, after a while, the enforced inactivity gets boring. I asked if I could put on something else instead. He said no, but he'd think about it.

I didn't really feel desperate enough to beg; besides, I was still resentful enough over what he had done to me that I wasn't going to humiliate myself willingly. On the other hand, the only two things I could do were listen to the headphones and snuggle with J, and I couldn't find the headphones blindfolded. I must have been quite a sight, creeping slowly around the house, holding onto furniture to keep my balance and trying not to break anything while I felt for the headphones. Finally, I tried stretching the hood until I could see through a nostril hole. That was a mistake. He saw me. "I can see the hood isn't tight enough," he said. He went out to the garage.

When he came back he took me by the arm and led me into the bedroom. He said "You are going to get what you asked for. The body suit comes off."

The List Column 1 Item 14

He did something at my throat and unzipped the collar, separating the hood from the bodysuit. He unzipped the bodysuit from my throat to the center of my back and pulled it down to my ankles in one motion. I was naked except for the hood. I felt him buckle something around my upper thighs one at a time. Then my wrists; he locked my wrists to the sides of my thighs. I know the sound those little locks make by now. I would be able to walk, but I couldn't see and I couldn't reach any- thing with my hands. I was already worse off than before–but he wasn't through. He buckled a collar around my neck. He didn't bother to lock it: I couldn't reach it.

Another strap around each leg just above the knee, those connected so I could take only tiny steps–another strap around each ankle–still another at each elbow–yet another around my waist with a wide strap between my legs, forcing my buttocks apart. I remembered that one: he had put it on me once before. This time, though, my elbows were locked to the waistband. A strap across my back, under each arm and over each shoulder, holding my shoulders back and making my breasts jut out unnatural- ly–more than they ever would have even if I were deliberately trying to make them seem big.

He snapped still another strap to the back of my collar and buckled it to the back of my waistband, pulling it tight and forcing me to arch my back even more. Strap after strap after strap, and I was constrained more and more. The last clipped to my collar in front, passed between my breasts and through a ring on my waistband, was pulled tight and buckled, pressing the crotch cruelly against my labia, forcing them apart. I almost couldn't move: I couldn't bend over; I couldn't move my arms at all, even my elbows; I couldn't see. But I wasn't in pain. Well, not exactly. I could walk slowly, talk, and sit. Carefully. I didn't even feel safe walking. What if I had lost my balance?

I asked just that ques- tion and instantly he put a gag in my mouth, a simple cloth band tied tightly right over the hood, forcing my mouth open. I had never felt so trapped and constrained before. Even begging for a little relief was impossible. But still, I was not in pain. Being locked up and helpless that way was actually extremely erotic for me. It would have been more so if the image of my shaved forehead hadn't continued to wash through my consciousness. Erotic feelings in these circumstances are not something your average mid- westerner will admit, I know. I remember thinking that if only he had bound me this way instead of what he had done to my hair.

Always my thoughts returned to my hair. Whenever I thought directly about it my mind shied away, but at the same time my thoughts were drawn toward my forehead like a bird hypnotized by a snake (I know that is an old wife's tale, but it describes what I felt). I still can't think directly about the idea but neither can I ignore it. I am drawn inexorably toward something I try desperately to avoid confronting. It helps to write about it, I guess. Mostly, though, I concentrated on not losing my balance. If I had fallen with my arms locked at my sides…. But J was watching over me.

He guided me to the foot of the bed and clipped the front of my collar to something hanging from the ceiling–I couldn't tell what. If I bent my knees, my weight rested on the crotch of my leather "g-string" rather than my neck. Even if I fainted, I would not fall, could not hurt myself. All I could do was stand there. "When I come back, I will remove one restraint. Think about what you will do to get me to remove the next," he said. He left me stand- ing there in the bedroom for what seemed like hours; it may have been only fifteen minutes. I heard him moving around in the kitchen, and I thought. About basics. Is this weird? Yes. Did I still love him? Yes. Did I care if he loved me? Yes.

Did I want to end the List? Depends on how bad it was going to get. On the cost of ending it. It couldn't get any worse. There was nothing else he could do that mattered. I knew what was on the List, and was sure none of it was worse than what he had already done to my hair. As long as he stuck to the List. He had forced me to take this latest step, this hair thing. I was gagged and couldn't speak to protest. I would have stopped the List then if I could have. I really would have, even though I had agreed to it. (I actually got an erotic charge out of the act of agreeing to it.

I was being daring and sexy when I should have been thinking with something other than my glands.) After, it was too late. It isn't completely my fault; there is some solace to be found in that. And how was he to know that my written fantasies about him shaving me were just fantasies? After all, I agreed to the List. But I was wrong in one thing: it did get worse. The only conclusion I came to was that in the short term I wouldn't think about it. I would go along with what he wanted, and then I would take it from there. That meant the first step was to please him, or at least make him believe I wanted to please him. Hell, I didn't want to please him, I wanted him to own me. Double hell.

I don't know what I wanted. When he came back the first thing he did was not to remove a restraint, but to kiss me right through the gag. Gently, he tugged on the pendants dangling from my jutting breasts. I knew from personal experimentation that my nipples readily everted, even though I could- n't see what was going on. He tugged a little more. The feeling was exquisite: intense pleasure coupled with a sensation of not-quite- pain. They were still tender, but fully healed, I think. Before, I would have said that pulling, even the gentlest pulling (he is gentle when it's important) on my nipple rings would have been absolutely verboten. Now, I'm not so sure.

He increased the tension on my nipples until my breath quickened: each sharp exhalation/inhalation was separated by a momentary pause, a holding of my breath, a waiting, suspended with no thought except of the tips of my nipples. For some reason, it is important to me that you understand that last paragraph. Exhale. Inhale. Pause with lungs full. Concentrate on nipples. It was a very intense sensation. Try it. Exhale inhale. It hurt more to exhale, so I tried to keep my lungs full. But I had to breathe. Use your imagination. It was intense. Inhaling eased some of the tension on my nipples. The sensation seems somehow to extend deep inside my breasts and to tug directly at my womb.

I know there's no physiological basis for this sensation, but it is real. I am sorry J isn't sensitive that way and will never experience that sensation. No, I'm not sorry. Well, yes, I am. I could feel myself getting wet beneath the leather crotch. He took off the gag and kissed me through the hood again. I returned the kiss, pressing my immobilized body against him as best I could. My nipples remained erect and hard. He unhooked my neck from the hanging chain. I fell against him, pressing my body against him deliberately. He caught and held me. I held my face blindly toward his; again he kissed me through the mask.

I told myself I was only doing this to get free, but I knew it wasn't true even at the time. I was loving it. I even like writing about it. He eased me back onto the bed where he kissed me again and tugged–a little less gently–on the pendants on my hard, erect nipples. You can't imagine the excruciatingly exquisite feeling of a tug on the very tip your already pebble-hard nipples, a tug that seems to reach into the center of you and send a kind of a lazy electric jolt through your body, stopping your breath and causing an instant flood of warmth and moisture inside you. Or maybe you can imagine. Until then I never had felt it that intensely. Nipple rings are great.

He unhooked the strap connecting the back of my collar to the waistband, making the unnatural back-arching posture no longer neces- sary. My shoulders remained strapped together, though and my breasts were still thrust outward. My nipples ached with excitement; they were so stiff the pendants were held out at the very tips: they no longer dangled against my breasts; didn't even touch them when I was stand- ing. My breath became ragged. He lifted me into the center of the bed and laid me on my back. He removed the strap between my knees. He strapped my ankles to the bedposts, my legs held quite far apart, although not to the point of actual discomfort.

Then he attached something to my knee-straps that pulled my knees even further toward the edges of the bed. I had never been spread so wide before. I could feel the muscles between my thighs straining under the tension. He knelt between my knees, unbuckled the waistband buckles in front and opened the leather belt, exposing my already-wet sex. He unhooked my elbows from the waistband and unbuckled the strap that ran from the front of my collar to the front of the waistband. Lifting my buttocks, he slid the waistband from underneath me. I was as exposed to him as it is possible to be, my legs spread wide, my breasts jutting, my wrists still locked to my thighs.

Carefully, he let his weight settle gently on top of me; he felt like a warm, heavy snowfall blanketing me. I was panting, partly from the near-pain caused by the position of my legs, partly from excite- ment. He unzipped the bottom of the hood and peeled it back to the bridge of my nose, uncovering my mouth. I felt his breath on my face, near-kisses teasing my blind, searching lips. With excruciating slowness, he penetrated me simultaneously, my mouth with his tongue and my sex with his maleness. I was already spasming toward an orgasm. It was hard to reach up to pull him in while in that position, but still I tried to the limits of the strain on my poor suffering inner thighs.

He thrust into me, teasing. Deeply into me and out. Long pause. In-out. Pause. Every time he penetrated me my breath rushed out in a sharp exhalation and rushed back as he withdrew. When he paused, my breath held suspended, waiting expectantly for the next penetration. He increased the tempo until my breath was coming in uncontrollable pants that he nonetheless kept timed with his thrusts. My pants merged with ragged moans, the moans with soft cries, the cries becoming louder and louder until our dams burst, together. Timing is all. I subsided into a quivering exhaustion. Gradually, he became limp inside me. It was after a few moments that the most wonderful thing hap- pened.

The thing that convinced me that I actually was still attrac- tive–maybe more attractive–to him with my hair that way. He reached up and slipped the hood the rest of the way off, exposing my naked forehead. All thought evaporated from my head. All that was left was the humiliation. I was totally, utterly embarrassed. Even though the evening light was very dim and he couldn't really see me, I turned my head to the side, trying to hide myself. I struggled impotently against the straps holding my wrists to my thighs. But he held my head between his hands and turned me to face him. Tenderly, he kissed my shaved forehead. As he did, I felt him begin to grow again inside me.

The feeling was wonderful. To have him already in me, and growing bigger and bigger, until he was stiff and hard again, filling me completely. In those moments I realized that the sight of my shaved forehead was the cause of his wonderful resur- rection. I realized he really did, at an involuntary level and in a way that can't be faked, like the way I now looked. Which was good. At least some small part of this whole scene was good. So I had my third orgasm of the day after all, and all the while, in the back of my mind, was the thought that my new appearance, even though I hated (still hate) it, gave me power. Power over him.

The List, Part 7 · Part 2 (2/2)
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