Day 6

Every so often I treat my skin to a clay masque, sometimes in a salon, sometimes at home. I am not saying the home option is not messy, but once you lie down and rest and let the clay do its salutary work, it is very good. One feels warm, relaxed and utterly content. Today I will use it to mark my body.

I prepare a bowl of the clay and create a safe area on my bed with towels. It is a beautiful day when I sit and stand on my bed during the process. The windows, which face north, are open and let in warm air and mild daylight.

With a paintbrush I mark my body from head to toe. Normally, I tend to be provocative even to myself, or outright negative. Not today.

I will celebrate my body, comment on its beauty and how I enjoy it, using beautiful words only.

Pardon me if I am sentimental, but the first words are on my belly, loud and clear: 'Vanna loves [my husband's name].' Sentimental? Those without sins cast stones first.

'Soft' and 'sensitive' on my breasts. And 'mother', which I am not. (But I have one, who suckled me.)

The initials of my husband on my buttocks. And 'hold me tight', 'bite softly'.

My anus I can hardly mark. Somewhere in my crotch I paint characters which would indicate 'I am a virgin, but willing. Be gentle!' Without doubt they cannot be read, but who cares?

My dear, dear vagina... 'Labia', 'clitoris', 'hood'... I choose to ignore that I am self-professed 'masturbation slut.' If not, I might be compelled to curse my pleasure hole. So instead I write 'orgasm', 'fucking pleasure!' And I mean it.

I like my back. It is slender enough, yet strong. 'Slender', 'strong', 'grace', 'cello'.

My forehead, 'Zen.'

(Zen students, I do not mean to insult you. When I refer to Zen, it is with reference to my all too restless brain. I wish I could simply consider and be.)

My cheeks, 'cheek.' My legs, 'elegance', 'gazelle' (I wish...), 'power', 'smooth'.

Does this sound like my usual self? If I ever wished to sound clever, this is obviously not the time, and I feel good about it. Here I am provocative perhaps, in the way that clichés may be... I'd be the first to condemn clichés, but not today!

When my inspiration is over and my body fully marked up, I carefully go to the mirror and admire myself. I look raw and earthy, forgive me the pun, and not aesthetical. But I like it, especially when I read the words. I feel simple and silly and simply delighted.

I go back to the bed and take the remainder of the clay to cover the rest of my body. Gone the words... I lie on my bed and let it the clay dry... nice and warm... An hour passes. I then take a lovely warm bath and rinse myself.

The rest of the day, I feel weightless. My skin is so smooth...

I have said it before. I am a masturbation slut. When idle and alone, I masturbate all too often. All too often? Says who? It is not about 'who says.' It is about the quality of the climaxes, which reduces with the frequency, as we all know. Also, it wastes my time. And I feel guilty. Guilty? Really? I would be happier if I could present myself as the Great Emotio-rational Woman, completely in control of herself and above petty notions such as guilt, a woman who does what she does, eyes wide open. Mind you, I do not feel guilty because I waste myself in the eyes of morality or my husband. I give the latter what he needs, with total conviction too. In the final analysis (my analysis, that is) I feel guilty because it controls me, rather than I it.

(Hence my interest in chastity belts! I have not taken the plunge, however, and would not have a key holder.)

All too often... Yet I like the anticipation phase of orgasms so much and cannot stop having them! A true slut I am!

For today, the next period of twenty-four hours, I have decided to seriously play with this. I will not come!

I have demonstrated to be capable of hardship. My 'Day to Remember' attests to that. But the present task is only deceptively easy. Smokers will know if they have ever tried to kick the habit. I am addicted but I will not come! If it is the last thing I do - don't do!

And I will do it in a round about way, by keeping myself excited all the time, and quenching the heat with ice before I come. Pavlov should cure me in this way. Me, the old doctor and his dog all in one. A dog indeed. Will this scheme work?

Get on with it, Doctor, what do I do?

I lie flat on my bed with closed eyes and think of things that turn me on ... My husband, far away and unaware of my exploits ... he is a good lover, however conventional; he is gentle or hard when he needs or wants to be ... and I miss him!

Ice! I break away and grab a few ice cubes from the bowl beside me and force two into my cunt...

Hell!

I spring into fetus position, eyes closed and teeth clenched. The pain is intense! Yet it only lasts a minute or two, whence I can gradually relax and feel the ice melt inside of me. (I refer to my 'Red & Blue, Fire and Ice' for my earlier experience.)

And yes, in time I realise that I have succeeded in preventing a climax indeed. Good girl! (Dr. Pavlov, are you with me?)

It is at least half an hour before I can even begin to stimulate myself again. I should, though. Once I do begin, the stimulation is nice of course. I am ever so gently, so as to stretch the process endlessly. I do not think of ice; I think of the second visitor I am expecting, a man, and how I will present myself to him. I decide that I will not only remain nude, but that I will be shameless... that I may offer myself up for inspection... My mental eyes see how he looks me over at close range, how he spends ample time on my intimate areas...

No! Halt! My hand scrams into the bowl and thrust a few cubes in my crotch... The hurt! (Dr. Pavlov, screw you!)

I will not even touch myself anymore!

I continue lying on my bed for at least another half an hour, before my mind asserts itself again. I catch myself sucking my thumb.

I will not even touch myself anymore! I have to take that back. I am a slut and have resolved to keep going - my weak and strong sides working in unison! I have sat down at my PC and visit my favourite haunts on the web, the voyeur and exhibition sites, the ponygirl sites, rockbitch, ropemarks - the images I watch are those I can identify with. Pictures of people having sex do not do it for me. Nor the few pictures of naked men; the few you can find beyond the homo-erotic ones. And above all the erotic story sites. (Whatever happened to my heroine Voxana?)

I do touch myself, but the effect is indifferent. I am amazed. Have I succeeded in conditioning myself so quickly? I get nervous and worried, and afraid that I have lost the appetite altogether! My reason tells me that worrying is counterproductive - everyone knows this-, but my reason is not heard. So much for the mind over the body! I start rubbing myself ever more frantically and all I do is get sore. I fetch the jar of Vaseline, which helps the soreness, but does nothing for the appetite. Face it, woman! You have lost it.

I sink to the floor and cram a few ice-cubes into my crotch, scream and start crying.

When I get up eventually, I mix myself a large whisky, an overdose, force it down as soon as I can and go to bed. Intoxicated, sleep comes soon. A blissful sleep.

I wake before the 24 hours are over. I find my hand in my crotch, doing what it does best. Mmmm... Nice.

Then my mind enters the scene, at the hand of Dr. Pavlov. The nice feeling turns sour immediately. I rub myself until I am sore again. No reward.

Pavlov rules, still.

The rest of the day is clouded by the memory. I have conditioned myself, it appears, but have not become liberated.

It is only late at night, reading a good book in bed, that I manage to orgasm again. The joy I feel is overwhelming. Has the good Doctor proven his methods in an unexpected, roundabout way?

Today I decide to engage in a game of truth follows fiction and spend a day blindfolded. Whose fiction? My own fiction of 'Full Circle', the day my heroine spends blindfolded. Of course, I have been blindfolded before, but not for a full day.

The minute I wake up I select a scarf that will do as the blindfold and put it on. Not before taking a 'last look at the room and at the world outside, which have been my universe. ... And then there is utter darkness.'

So then, what to do now? I have a whole day to pass. Reading is out of the question, as is writing for that matter, or e-mailing. Mmmm... The matter is to do the things I can do and enjoy. Breakfast is mandatory, but fits the bill. Washing does too; a long hot bath is next. Then I will see. I get up and carefully move towards where the door to the landing is. I know my house well and do manage to leave the room unharmed. But then immediately I ram a shin into a side table. (Oh, damn the vulnerability of that 'prison of the mind!' Oh, damn my mind that thought of the blindfold!) After my recovery I ever so carefully make my way down the stairs to the kitchen to prepare my breakfast. I manage to boil the water, make the tea, make toast all without bodily harm.

The intense concentration on these day-to-day actions is pacifying. I am a student in Zen! I sit down to eat.

Now my thoughts have the opportunity to develop. I cannot read or think little thoughts about what I see around me. I think of: 'how lonely I am ... not even my body to keep me company ... why would there not be anyone peaking through my kitchen windows and loathe me or lust after me ... he could be a great creep ... with my eyes active I would feel very much more powerful and able to control any dangers ... ' These are silly, unhappy thoughts.

I make peace again with myself by stroking my body. It is hard to resist doing 'that'. Why resist? Because done once, why not again, and again? Yes, why not? Because saving myself makes for better highs. And also, abstinence strengthens the mind. Yet, I do find my hand in the wrong place even while thinking this! I have told you before that I am a masturbation slut! I slap my right hand with my left, quite hard enough!

After breakfast, I have my long hot bath, which I manage to go to, prepare and immerse in without incidents. I have even managed to bring a bottle of cool white wine and a glass all in one piece. The bath is good and hot, the wine nice and cool and restful... I fall asleep...

Who knows what time it is when I wake up. The water is tepid and I quickly take a hot shower and get out.

I stroll around my living room and sing to myself a little.

I begin to feel that I am being watched. This has not happened to me since I started my fortnight. I am quite used to prancing around naked, during mornings before I go out etc. Unless someone has deliberately come up to the house I cannot be watched. Someone may have. I cannot see. I should not care anyway, damn it! It is my house, not his or hers or its, whatever! Damn you. I slowly make my way to the wide-open French windows and press my shameless body against the windowpane, legs spread, and arms high. (Yes, I remember my heroine: '... long list of the most detailed of instructions... When and where to sit, when to move a leg over the other, when to sit in front of the window with wide-open thighs.... when to walk back to the glass facade and press my body against it, how long to remain motionless in this position, until my tied nipples start hurting unbearably, remaining motionless even when a fly lands on one of my buttocks and walks to my hole and around and around until I go insane... No one sees me do these things, I am convinced, yet I do them, religiously...') No one sees me do these things, I am sure. The thought that one of my neighbours, or the milkman, the paperboy would be there, for some strange reason, and see me is upsetting. Not for my sake - once an exhibitionist, always an exhibitionist, but for my husband and our reputation. 'Ah, bugger!' and I resolve to stay here for ten minutes (how can I tell?) or as long as I possibly can.

And I do until my calves and arms hurt like hell.

The rest of the day is uneventful. I do bump against a few things, with minor hurts. I eat lunch. I answer a few phone calls, including one from my husband, who will have heard the usual respectable Mrs. V or his loving wife respectively. One phone call is to the girlfriend who just visited me, who admits to having managed a few nude hours of her own, enjoyed them, but never became entirely at ease. I argue that she will, given practice.

I listen to music for a few hours, while drinking tea. Mind, I sit in an easy chair in front of the French windows, facing the garden, legs spread - it is very hard not to cross them and I do on occasion, only to correct myself hastily when I become aware.

A note on time. I cannot see my clocks and decline to have the radio or TV on. It is my biological clock that drives when I eat and drink. It may be very late when I prepare my simple dinner: pasta, salmon, a salad and white wine once more. When I eventually go to bed, I do this because I am tired. How healthy and natural.

In bed I decide it was a good day. I have masturbated only once, while listening to the music, just before dinner. An excellent high, I might add, thanks to my self-restraint. I have practiced having simple or no thoughts along the way. As to the heroine of 'Full Circle', she was very lonely, whereas I was merely alone. She would have wanted to be seen by her love, as opposed to me ironically. I would have wanted to be seen, but only by anonymous viewers.

I have sweet dreams.