From: [email protected] Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: Nurse Jones and the Night of the Long Stockings >From Nurse Jones, [A new post. New to the Net, that is. I wrote it after I lost my account way back when...] Midsummer, '92 You're going to think this was crazy, but Anita wanted to do it and we couldn't talk her out of it. All we could do was go along and help protect her. Harry has had another party. I don't know if there was an announcement on ASB this time -- especially after the last experience Harry (and I) had. So if you didn't see one you can probably thank Harlan for that. Harry wanted the four of us to go and do a repeat performance of the weird thing that happened the last time I went to Valdosta. We explained that you can't repeat sponteneity, but he wouldn't listen. We explained that we didn't even know each other then, and we do now. We explained that everything is different now. He explained he would pay Anita; he just *had* to have us there. Well, *I* was offended. Plus he was skeptical that we didn't know each other back then. He thought that the first time I kissed Neets was staged and that we had known each other all along. Well, what does he know anyway, the old queen. I mean, *he's* the one that introduced us in the first place, for heaven's sake. But that's ancient history. I posted about that last year. Almost exactly a year ago, now that I think of it. Anyway, we were really stupid. We should have told Harry we just plain didn't want to go, but instead we gave excuses about how long a drive it is and how we all have jobs and have to work. That was when he offered to pay Anita. A lot. Plus expenses. I thought she was going to tell him to go fuck himself, but he offered to hire a limousine to pick us all up and take us back home, and for some reason the idea of the limousine changed her mind. But then she wanted *us* to go and she wouldn't do it without us. And I definitely didn't want to go. Mostly because that's where we met Harlan the Barbarian, lurking ASB puppydog, to whom, if he is reading, I would like to extend my warmest middle finger. So anyway, Jay decides that before he and I agree to go he wants to negotiate something additional in return from Harry. Which I thought was pretty crass, since it was Neets that was going to be whipped, but it turns out that what he wanted was rather sweet. He wanted to hire Hunk (I'll tell you about him later -- for now, he's Harry's boyfriend) as a butler/waiter at a private party Jay plans to have at our house someday. In honor of Neets and me. And he'll pay Hunk handsomely. Which is only fair; after all, its a long drive to our house from Valdosta. Anyway, I was dumfounded that this whole deal went through. I thought everybody was insane; I kept watching them make one crazy decision after another until finally everything had been negotiated with Harry and we were going to do it. I can't believe she went through with it. She was ready to turn down all that money and then for a few hundred dollars worth of VIP treatment and a limousine she goes and says yes. It was crazy. But we all went with her, so I guess we're as crazy as she is. I still don't know if I should be mad at her and the rest of them. It was a stupid, weird, depressing evening. In a way, getting ready for it was fun, though. Like putting on a show. It was a total sham, in fact. Fake. An act. Tom used his noisiest, most spectacular looking but relatively harmless (so Anita says) whip. Stagey lighting, ropes, costumes, the whole two yards. It practically became a vaudeville act. They swallowed the whole thing. I think. Actually, it ended up to be only partly an act, but we didn't understand why until after. I got to dress her. That part was really a lot of fun. Everything was calculated to have the most dramatic effect possible. It certainly had an effect on Jay. Who, incidentally, has been reading what I write and offering criticism. Most of which centers on my midwestern tendency to leave out anatomically correct details whenever I talk about myself or Neets. He says men like that kind of stuff and I have to write for my audience, which is mostly male. I guess he's right. I'll humor him anyway, if only because he has such great buns. Little, tight rosy ones. He's like a ripe apple. Is that anatomically correct enough for you, wonderbuns? Hmmmm? Well, fair's fair... Okay, okay: Her pantyhose were sheer-to-the-waist charcoal grey, with those patterns from the knees down that look like ornate painted-on boots. They were a size too small so they would run easily when the whip hit them. Harry paid for four pairs of them, one for practice, one for real, two more that fit just because Harry was paying. Over that were black thong panties because after we practiced we decided torn pantyhose with holes looked a little funny by themselves. Besides, her pubic hair hasn't grown back completely yet. And the thong looked pretty good anyway. I put a bra on her, but instead of doing the hooks, I sewed it on with just one thread so she could break it by taking a deep breath, timed with the whip. We practiced this little trick beforehand, and I had to sew on the bra at the last minute in the car. It looked like the whip broke the bra strap. I think. Actually, it was kind of hokey. Who knows if they were impressed. Who cares. A little black collar and black elbow-length gloves (I found them at Goodwill and they were too big for me) and 5 inch black stilettos completed the ensemble. Heavy makeup, and I teased her hair unmercifully. She looked like every man's dream. Well, maybe not *every* man. Her face is a little strong-boned for some men's taste, and she is a little small in the cup size, but you wouldn't believe how long her legs looked in that getup. God, I'd kill for legs like that. When she walks, it's like a pair of long, slender scissors snicking shut and opening, snicking shut. She knows it too, the bitch. And she has beautiful hair, unlike yours truly with split ends up to here. Anyway, we tested all this at home. The piece de resistance was my own invention. I got a syringe from work and took the vitamin E out of a gelatin capsule and replaced it with red food coloring so she could pretend to bite her lip and bleed spectacularly. The idjit swallowed it in the first two minutes. Like I said: totally phoney. Almost. I'd never ridden in a limousine before. Those things are enormous inside. But not as exciting as I had hoped. There wasn't even a bar. It was pretty much like riding in a car, in fact, except backwards. But Anita looked so classy/sleazy on the seat. Is that possible? Classy and sleazy at the same time? It costs so much to look cheap these days. The makeup was a bit sleazy (the false eyelashes were a leetle on the heavy side) but when she crossed her legs .... She had a long black silky bathrobe made of some clingy synthetic (courtesy of Harry again) on over the costume. When she crossed her legs it sort of slithered open. Well, classy is the only word for those legs. Jay says there's nothing sexier than the sound of that material and the pantyhose kind of sliding around together. In there. Somewhere. He also says there's nothing sexier than the sound of high heels clicking on a floor. Sounds to me like he'd better make up his mind. Men. Anyway, everyone knows there's nothing sexier than a tight little ass in tight little jeans. -*- This party was a lot smaller and a lot quieter than the last one. All the men wore suits, all but Harry and his friend -- I still don't know his name, but Harry calls him His Bohunkness, aka Hunk. There wasn't an even mix of men and women, either. Too many men. Three were japanese. Two of them behaved very badly. One asked me if I was available for the evening. I think the little nematode was making a judgement based on what I was wearing. Which Jay said was insufficient evidence, ha ha. Now I ask you. Well, I can't ask you: you weren't there, but take my word for it, my dress wasn't THAT short; I really resisted the temptation to camp it up and look cheap. After all I wasn't supposed to be the center of attention. Besides, it costs an awful lot to look cheap. Still, I'm worth it. I think I was the youngest one there. Harry gives weird parties. At least nobody walked out this time. The last time, a woman and her husband left in disgust when the whipping scene started. I think everyone knew exactly what to expect this time. In fact, I wonder if Harry didn't sell tickets.... Hmmm? Harry? Are you reading this...? Anyway, after Paul (the hired hippie chauffer) parked the limo outside the house I sewed the back of Anita's bra together, and then Jay and I went in. It was our job to set the stage. Tom stayed with Anita in the car. I'm not going to bother to describe Harry's house again. Find an archive and go back and read about the last time we were there. It was the time I met Neets. The house is just a typical southern one from the 19th century. I heard one of the male guests with an english accent look around and say that "You Americans have always had such hideous architecture." Harry, bless him, said, "Yes, deah, Ah know. Innit jus' terrible? We cawl it Victorian." Harry is so sweet. Sometimes I could just kiss him. Sometimes I do. The only thing that really matters about the house is that it is old, and has fifteen foot ceilings and these white wooden columns on either side of the entrance to the dining room. To tie Anita to. That, specifically, was where I met her, in fact. I guess the house was in a good part of town once. Now there are duplexes and townhouses and cheap little rented homes all around, and a "project" nearby. It's funny how builders stopped taking pride in what they build. A few big old three story turreted houses like Harry's stick up through this architectural pollution like dinosaurs in a swamp, waiting patiently for extinction and wondering where the sun has gone. It's sad, really, what they've done to the South. Mostly developers from the North, too. You know, I never really took it seriously when people said that feelings still run high over the Civil War, but it's true. Maybe I've been listening to too many southern historians, but the Confederacy was really gutted economically by the North, and it has never been allowed to recover. Not that it's a conspiracy or anything, it's just that the paper trails of ownership still all lead to the North. Sorry to digress; I must be turning into a Southerner. Our city just had another twenty acres of live oaks replaced by an unwanted shopping mall thanks to a developer from New Jersey who said he would never live down here because he couldn't stand the climate. Of course, there is the heat to consider. It seems like Harry's house is always overheated. Last Winter it was too hot because of the fire in the fireplace; this time it was just Summer in the South. And there were too many people in the room. Again. He had ceiling fans, and the windows were open, but it was still hot. And muggy. Anyway, Jay stood up on a chair and measured up one of the columns and nailed a big nail into the back it. Harry winced theatrically when he saw the size of the nail, but he rolled his eyes and shook his head and waved his arms and told us to go ahead and destroy the place, which we did while Harry went off to show somebody his obscene african wood carvings. I've already seen them; he shows them to everyone -- I think just for the shock value. He's especially proud of this huge carved ebony monstrosity that he says is a phallic symbol. "Well," I said in my best Vivien Leigh Southern Belle accent, "Ah don't know about that, but I'd hate to tell you what it looks like to *me*." That caused Harry to shriek with laughter which degenerated into a coughing fit when His Bohunkness took me seriously and tried to explain what a phallic symbol is. Poor Hunk. It's a shame there's no mental equivalent of limbo dancing. The way things go over his head he'd be a champ. I listened politely and nodded gravely and looked so impressed with Hunk's erudite explanation that Harry turned purple and started wheezing and pointing and coughing again. Sometimes I wonder about Harry. So anyway, we tied a rope around the nail and let the ends hang down. They had little brass clips tied on. Harry had arranged a small spotlight, which he aimed at the column and left on for a while. The guests wandered over and babbled to each other and inspected the arrangements. They knew what was coming; Harry had explained everything. He said word had gotten around after the last party. I think *he* spread the word around. And I *still* think he sold tickets. It wasn't like the excitement and anticipation had built to a fever pitch, though. They were all being very cool and sophisticated about the whole thing. One man in a suit tugged on a rope as though he were some kind of quality control inspector. They all had a good look, like a bunch of tourists. I half expected to see a bus driver come to the door and herd them away to the next attraction. One of them thought I was the one that was going to be whipped and she asked if I enjoyed it. I think a friend of hers egged her until she came over to talk to us. She was trying not to laugh as she asked, and she cozyed up to me like we were long lost friends or something, but she kept looking back at her buddies to see if they were watching. She was disgusting. Besides, she stank of cigarettes and bourbon; her breath smelled awful. Back in Indiana we would have tiped her over on Halloween. And she insisted on putting her arm around my shoulders and asking me in this confidential whisper if I really liked it, hon. Her husband tried to steer her away. I hope she was just drunk. I hope he was embarrassed by her behaviour, but he acted more like he didn't want her to be seen talking to us. Nice crowd. While we were getting ready for Anita we were left pretty much to ourselves, and I was aware of people talking about us, glancing at us and averting their eyes if they chanced to make eye contact. They made me feel like an accident on the highway. Curious uncaring blank faces slowing down for a look through empty eyeholes, then looking away in disgust if they actually chanced to glimpse what they came to see. I had had enough of them. Hollow people. If that's what it is to be straight, you can have it. Ick. I should have gone out to the car and tried to get Neets to call it off. But I didn't, and I couldn't leave her to do it by herself. Harry has a pretty highly developed sense of the dramatic. He lit bunches of candles and then had his bohunkness turn off all the lights and at the same time Harry turned off the music and I opened the front door wide. I left it open. The cool air felt wonderful. Before I went back into the living room, I saw the driver getting out to open the car door for Anita. The lights going off were the signal for her and Tom to come in. Everybody had been shouting to be heard over the music and each other, but when the music and lights went off all the conversation stopped for a second. In the silence Harry said, "She's coming." Deathbreath started to talk again, and someone else shushed her. Maybe out of self defense. We heard the car door slam shut; one of the suits looked out the front window and said, "Jesus." She does look unbelievable with her legs coming out the front of that black robe. The rest of us could hear her heels on the sidewalk. Everybody, including Jay and myself, looked toward the door when we heard her click up the steps. She didn't even slow down at the front door. It was open, and she just walked on through. When her heels hit the hardwood in the foyer, everybody was stock still, nobody spoke, drinks were still, not even an icecube rattled. I was bursting with pride for her. They were all looking toward the entrance to the living room, waiting for her clicking heels to arrive. She stopped dead in the living room doorway: clack, clack. She looked out over the congregation for a few seconds. She's six-three in five inch heels, BTW. I think she was taller than anyone in the room, even his bohunkness, who is huge. She untied the waist cord of her robe and let it fall open a bit. One knee came out. Then her leg emerged completely from the front of that robe and she took a step out into the room. Click. You've never seen anything so long and lean. Then another step. Click. Jay said later that as much as he loves me, he has never seen anything more magnificent. Neither have I, dammit. She was hamming it up for the crowd, but still ... noone else could have had that effect, hamming or not. She was walking so slowly that I thought at first she was nervous, that she was being cautious about entering the room. It was, after all, a very weird situation. But after the first few steps, I realized she was walking very deliberately toward the column. She walked a bit like a cowboy at a showdown; not swaggering, but carefully, cautiously, and with measured steps, one at a time, toward an opponent. I could hear the legs of her pantyhose whispering against each other and against the synthetic of the robe. Whisper, click. Whisper, click. Whisper, click. There was an open path through the guests, but one unfortunate man happened to be standing in the middle of the room in her way and he didn't realize it. Click, click, she stopped in front of him. She looked down without expression at the poor hapless twit, as though he was a specimen of something that she was going to give a chance to crawl away because she'd rather not have to scrape him off her shoe. He probably wasn't really a twit, but she made him look like one. She just stopped and stared at him and waited for him to move. She was nearly a head taller than he was. He just gaped up at her and swallowed. I had the impression for a moment that he was thinking she had singled him out of the crowd for some purpose and that she had walked up to him and God only knows what she had on her mind but she could do anything she wanted and it would be alright with him and he couldn't believe his good luck that she had picked him out of all these people. And then he seemed to sort of wake up and look around and realize he was just in her way and he flushed and backed away in confusion and stepped on someone else's foot. I guess I make it sound like she was cruel to him, and maybe she was, but I didn't feel any sympathy for her victim. Maybe I should have, but I didn't care then and I still don't. I felt proud of her. Proud I was with her. Even though she didn't say anything, I felt she was speaking for me and everyone else on the fringe. I thought: Yeah. That's right, dammit. You tell him. You let him know where he stands. Out of the way. With the rest of them. Buncha tourists. There was a second or two of confusion while the poor man sorted his feet out and blushed furiously, but the group recovered and returned to an embarrassed (but expectant) silence almost immediately. She turned her head slowly and focused her sights on the next person that was still standing between her and the column. Suddenly they were all galvanized into action and nearly fell over themselves scrambling to get out of her way. She waited until they had sorted themselves out again. Whisper. Click. Whisper. Click, click. She stopped about six feet away and looked at the column. Harry turned the spotlight back on. It wasn't very bright or very big. The rest of the room was still darkish with just the candles. For dramatic effect, she stood there contemplating her fate until they were all suitably impressed. The congregation took this all very seriously. I had to put my hand in front of my mouth; I was bugeyed from trying not to laugh. It was an effort to compose myself. Then she shrugged and the robe slithered to the floor behind her. The room seemed to sigh. I watched the woman standing next to me, obviously as straight as they come. She looked at Anita, then looked away, ashamed, and then looked back again. Neets' legs are so long, and her ass so perfect. I wish I ... well ... I guess I can't complain. Jay had to stand on tiptoe to reach her wrist cuffs when she held them up to be clipped to the ropes. This way of tying her up was an innovation, by the way. She had decided to do something new during the whipping. Normally she is spread-eagled with ropes. The last time we were in Valdosta -- when we met -- she was tied up between those same two columns, one arm to each, up high. But you already know about that if you were reading ASB last Winter. This time she was facing a column with her arms wrapped around it and her wrist cuffs clipped to the rope on the far side, up high. Like before, she was stretched upward so that she couldn't fall even if she tried to. I don't know why she decided to do this instead of her usual eagle. Nobody even noticed when Tom came in with his little black bag. She turned her face to the side, cheek against the column, and waited, looking into my eyes. I guess I should take a minute to tell you something here. Those of you that know about Anita know that she behaves strangely before she is whipped. She sort of retreats inside herself and it becomes very hard for the rest of us to communicate with her. She doesn't speak, and she turns completely passive. In fact she doesn't do much of anything unless she is made to do it. I don't know if it's some kind of mental anesthetic or what. She says afterwards that she is always acutely aware of everything going on around her, but that she has no interest in communicating; it just seems like such a huge effort to talk and there is no point. I know she remembers what happens, because she can tell me about it afterward. Anyway, thats what she normally does. But this time wasn't normal. This time we were faking it. This time she thought of it as a performance because so much of it was planned, staged. She didn't go into her shell the way she normally does. In fact, we were having a perfectly normal conversation about how sleazy the Bush administration is (imagine that) while we were riding in the limousine. She was alert and aware and perfectly normal right up to the moment the whip hit her. Nobody gave it a thought. Piece of cake. I guess the point is that she hadn't prepared herself the way she normally does, because she didn't think of it as a normal encounter with her whip. Sheesh. Will you listen to me. "Normal...whip." In the same sentence. Jesus, have I changed in the last year. Anyway, she walked into this scene uninsulated, expecting to do a performance, and she got caught by surprise. I don't think she was aware of how important her mental preparation had been in the past. Certainly none of the rest of us were. I'm not even sure she knows how much she changes before a scene. As I said, the whip Tom used was spectacular sounding but not normally very painful. At least not normally to her. The trouble was, she was *supposed* to be acting. And she has a safeword. Which she's never used, but still she has one. I don't know how good an actress she is, but I know I would have absolutely no trouble at all projecting realistic fear and pain if I were being whipped like that. I bet I could even make *myself* believe it. So, even though she isn't normally noisy during a whipping, when she let out a yelp on the first stroke it was exactly what everyone, including myself (but for different reasons), was expecting. Her arms tensed against the ropes and her hands made claw shapes in the air, and she yelped. It was almost a shout, in fact, and she started breathing very rapidly, the same way she had once before when Tom had used the numero uno nasty painful whip. But that's another story, too. One or two of you know it. She turned her head back and forth, looking over her shoulder as though she was trying to verify that Tom wasn't doing something wrong, and then she looked at me with a trapped-rabbit look. She looked really afraid. But she didn't use her safeword. Still, it was so realistic an expression I had to remind myself: she's SUPPOSED to be acting frightened, she HAS a safeword, and Tom IS using the gentlest (sheesh) whip. Even so, I glanced at Tom and made a prearranged gesture that told him to back off a little. We never expected to actually use it, but it worked. He paused and pretended to adjust his whip or something, and when he started again, he had eased off a bit. During that brief respite, she settled down and rested her cheek against the column as though she were hugging it, but she still had that panicked look. She was watching me, and I felt as though she was looking to me for help, but all she had to do was use her safeword. Tom would have paused, stopped, backed off, whatever she wanted, if she had only used her safeword. But she didn't. She never has. Does there come a point when you have to try and evaluate whether a person is realistic about using her safeword? A point when you have to look out for her because she might not be looking out for herself? When you have to try to second guess her? Being a good top would be ulcer-making work, I'm beginning to learn. She was upset. I didn't know how much of it was an act. If it hadn't been for the fact that she was supposed to be hamming it up I would have interrupted after the first stroke. As it was, I interrupted again after a few more strokes anyway. She was looking directly at me, desperately making eye contact, and the look on her face could only be described as imploring. I went over to her said in her ear, "Tell me," and put my ear up as close as I could get to her mouth. "Jesus, this really hurts," she said. She was panting. "But it's the easy whip," I said, "and I already told him to back off." "I know, but it _hurts_," she whispered. "I can tell him to back off more," I said, "or I can get him to take a break or something, but you just started..." "I know, but it HURTS!" She put her forehead against the column and took a few deep breaths. "Look, don't do anything. I'll shake my head at you if I want him to back off more. Watch me and don't look away. Something's not right." "I think we should stop. Right now. None of this is right. These are assholes anyway." "No. I'm okay. But keep your eye on me." "Okay, okay, but I still think you should stop." "Promise. Promise you won't look away." "Okay. Promise. But you'd f**king well better not be doing this for the money, that's all I can say. And you'd f**king well better use your safeword if you need to." I was whispering fiercely at her. I don't normally use language like that, but I was f**king mad at her. The whole thing was idiotic. We should have been safe at home. We should never have come. And those people were all horrible. They treated us like we were freaks. She just looked at me and shook her head. I took that to mean she wasn't doing it for the money, or she didn't need to use her safeword, or she didn't understand what was wrong. Take your pick. I shook my head too, in disgust, and kissed her shoulder and told her "Yell if it helps. They expect it anyway." I blotted her face (this time I came prepared with a towel). She was perspiring pretty heavily already. Hell, we all were. It was a hot night. The South can be like that. "Hey," she said as I went to leave. "What," I said, still furious. "I swallowed your stupid pill." I raised my eyes to heaven and shook my head again. I can't stay mad with her. I looked at Tom and shrugged my shoulders. Then I went back to my seat and watched her for the rest of the whipping. But she didn't shake her head. She just kept her eyes locked on mine, looking at me with this same trapped rabbit expression on her face, taking these short little breaths. It sounds odd to say this, but she had a kind of a strained panicky smile on her face. She looked bewildered, too, as if she was saying, "Why is this happening to me?" And she did bite her lower lip -- not so it bled -- but she caught it between her teeth even while she was giving me that weird strained smile. Every time the whip fell she shut her eyes and caught her breath. Several times she shut her eyes tight and pressed her forehead against the column, and more than once she made noises. Pretty dramatic sounding noises. She doesn't normally cry out, but I think she was experimenting with the theraputic value of the release or something. Tom could tell something was wrong, too, even though he couldn't see her face very well. He continued to take it easy, just hoping to get through this weirdness. Tom worked on the backs of her legs for a while, trying to destroy her pantyhose. Which he did. I don't think he was really hitting her hard enough to make them run; he had some trick that involved sort of dragging the whip after it hit or something. And he had done something to one side of the whip. You'd have to ask him. It took him a while, but they were full of holes when he was through. Very dramatic looking. And she worked up quite a sheen of perspiration, too. Well, like I said, we all did; it was a pretty warm room. Harry is the only one that always seems cool as a cucumber. But Anita looked particularly spectacular. She has very dark skin now that it is mid-Summer; she's been working on her tan at the beach. I keep telling her that it's bad for her, but she won't listen. I have to admit, she looks good with a tan. That night, perspiring the way she was, she looked fabulous. The rest of us just looked uncomfortable, especially the suits. I think near the end she achieved some sort of equilibrium or something. I don't know what happened inside her head, but whatever it was, it seems to have been an improvement over her near panic. The trouble was, she turned weird on us. I don't know how to say this without making her sound like an exhibitionistic slut, and she's not, really. The thing is, she started making love to the column, sort of. She pressed her central control panel up against it and wrapped one leg around the side. And she started making these little rubbing motions with her hips. You know: the way you would if you were ... you know. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. She's not like that, really. She's usually so dignified -- especially in public. At this point one of the japanese contingent took a picture with a flashbulb. Now, I thought Zen was a big thing with the japanese. You know, learning to live completely in the present, learning to take things a moment at a time. Paying attention to right now. Concentrating. So why is it that the japanese have become so obsessed wih trapping every moment on film and putting it away in a box instead of experiencing it? That seems to be a totally unZen thing to do. Just a thought. Anyway, this japanese guy took a picture. Tom stopped and looked at Jay and shook his head; Jay went over to have a word with the guy. I used the opportunity to check on Anita while the attention was focused elsewhere. I mean, she wasn't really behaving normally, even for someone from New Jersey. "You okay?" I was talking to her but looking at Jay, worried that there might be some kind of confrontation over the photography. "Mmmmm." She was still rubbing herself against the column. It seemed like the camera problem was resolving itself. The japanese guy was nodding and smiling and sweating. I focused on Anita. "What, exactly, are you doing? Jesus, you're obscene." "Hurry up," she said. "Get us out of here." She didn't even look at me. Seems like she was busy. I looked at Tom and gave him the signal to finish. He gave me a questioning look, we both shrugged, and he finished. Anita's bra magically parted on cue, and it even looked realistic. It seems she can do at least three things at once. Be whipped, breathe deeply on cue, and ... well, she was definitely still very busy with the column. She was supposed to have pretended to pass out at that point. Tom looked at me, shrugged again, and swung the whip again. She didn't slow down. So he hit her again, I thought a little harder. And again. The fourth time he was definitely hitting her harder than he had earlier; any idiot, even me, could have seen the difference. I guess he knew what he was doing. I asked him later, and he said he knew it was alright, that it wouldn't damage her physically, and that she knew what the message was and what to do about it. Plus he could tell she had managed to "get inside the right head space," whatever that means. She should have "fainted." The fifth, sixth, and seventh times she cried out, but still kept on. Tom looked at me bugeyed and I checked her again. "What the hell are you doing?" "Okay, okay (pant pant swallow). Tell him go ahead. Harder." I did, he did, and she cried out a couple of more times and finally she sagged against the ropes. Jay swooped over and cut her down and we supported her dramatic collapse to the floor. She was nowhere near worn out. She looked as though she was nearly unconscious, but she whispered fiercely in my ear: "Get me to the f**king car! Now!" She seemed to be in a hurry. We manhandled her into her robe and Tom and Jay got her on her feet and we headed for the door. She was pretending to be half conscious and dripping perspiration on everything in sight. The embarrassing thing was that through all this her hips were still moving slightly, suggestively, as though she were still wrapped around that stupid column. It wasn't a very obvious movement and I don't know if anyone else noticed. To me it looked really lewd, but then I know Neets and I know she really isn't like that. I whispered to her to cut it out and she said Cut what out? and before I could answer her the japanese camera buff stepped in front of us, all smiles, and asked Tom if he could buy his whip. As a souvenir. Tom, Jay, and I all looked at Anita, partly because it is her whip, and partly because she was acting crazy and we wanted to see what she'd do in case we needed to stop her. Her arms were around Tom and Jay's shoulders, or she might have reached for the little guy. She was two heads taller than he, and probably could have picked him up by his exquisite little lapels. As it was, I saw her hands become claws, then fists as she got herself under control. I think if Tom and Jay hadn't been holding her wrists there might have been a little nip in the air. I haven't been around the S/M culture long enough to know if such an offer is bad form or not, but it struck me as pretty crass. Maybe it was crass of Neets to do this for money. It certainly felt seedy to me. Anyway, Tom told him he didn't think it was for sale. Bub. The man smiled and nodded and sweated and said thankyou very much for an excellent evening; you are very beautiful and I enjoyed watching you. Great. The original Peking Tom. He still didn't move, though. I think maybe he thought this was the time to strike up a conversation or something. Maybe he was hoping for a date. Asshole. And these guys are supposed to be so inscrutable. This one was completely scrutable. At the drop of a hat. Anita became magically conscious enough to look straight at the little fungus and for a few seconds I thought she was going to reach out and pinch his head off. Someone had obviously already pulled off his other four legs. In an amazingly clear, loud voice for someone who was supposed to be nearly unconscious, she told him to go forth and multiply. In her own words. He just smiled and sweated and nodded some more. Then she told us to get her the f**k out of there. Which we did. Wouldn't want her to blow her earnings on legal fees. So that little contretemps capped an otherwise pretty awful evening for all of us. Harry came out on the front steps and went to give Anita an envelope, but she didn't make a move to take it. For one thing, she still had her arms on the fellas shoulders. She just looked at it. I think she was considering not taking it, but I know they need the money. Tom was pissed off, too, and he just stood there. They're both too stupid for words. They need the money. I took it from him. Well, I've always wanted to handle Anita's emoluments. 8) I'm disgusting, I know. She drooped her way dramatically to the foot of the stairs and Harry stayed on the porch, looking down at us. When she got to the bottom, Anita stood up straight and made a remarkable recovery. In fact, she suddenly seemed to be in a good mood. She shoved the two guys out of the way and slipped her thong off. She threw it to Harry and said, "Give this to that japanese asshole. Tell him I said, 'Fuck you very much.' Okay? But be polite and smile." Harry said he would be delighted. He would, too. She pulled her robe around herself and swept down the front walk. I had to practically run to keep up. I'll never understand Anita. Well, she took advantage of the only chance she may ever have to say, "Home, James," and we were off. She immediately took off the torn pantyhose and told Jay to get out his swiss army knife and cut them in half to make two blindfolds. "Blindfolds?" I was, I think understandably, a little curious. "Yeah. And you put this on." She gave me the sash from her robe. Tom, Jay, and I looked at each other, shrugged, and put them on. For the next hour we sat on the seat opposite Anita, lined up like three idiots. Blindfolded. See no evil, see no evil, see no evil. Tom asked if she was okay and she said, "Yeah." And that was that. And guess what Anita did. I heard her. After about fifteen minutes (it seemed like a hundred years blindfolded) we were out of the city and on the interstate, and I heard her polishing her hood ornament. She made little noises that I recognized. Then quiet again. I would have liked to help, especially blindfolded in a limousine, which I expect everyone should do at least once in their lifetime. But I knew she would let me know if she wanted help. It started raining while we had the blindfolds on. It can be pretty boring, sitting like that, so I put my head on Jay's shoulder and tried to go to sleep. It was late -- about one in the morning, and there is something cozy about the back seat of a car in the rain, with the world and the other cars rushing by outside. But I only dozed. There was a long silence. After a while she said, "Okay." "Okay what? You mean we can take 'em off?" "Yeah." So we did, but by then the boys were both pretty zonked out and went back to sleep against the doors. Tom peeked at her and left his blindfold on, in fact. I watched her for a few minutes. She was just sitting looking out the window. Every time a car passed us I could see her face in the headlights. She looked depressed as hell. She had been crying, but now she was just looking out the window. I slid over onto the seat beside her and pulled her to me for a cuddle. She put her head in my lap and I stroked her hair for a while. I wish I could have made it all better. I kind of hoped she had managed to make it with the column. Or there in the back seat. But no. Nothing. I stroked her hair and a tear ran down the inside of my thigh. Damn, damn, damn. Nurse Jones, this isn't how it was supposed to be.
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