My 'List of Lists':

LIST: LIST OF LISTS

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If you've seen this before, my apologies. If you haven't - well, I guess I won't apologise :-). But it's the usual comment. There are things which turn people on, and things which turn people off. There are very few, if any, things which turn everybody on, or turn everybody off. There may be some of those things, from either side of the balance, in what follows. Which side each one fits isn't up to me, it's up to the reader. Because just like I can write a murder mystery without ever having killed anyone, or wanting to, I can write some of the things here without them being 'my' thing. And I can write them if they are, and no - I'm not going to tell you which is which :-). But as a reader, you have the same privilege. People who watched Dexter and enjoyed it didn't have to be would be serial killers. And even if they were, they didn't have to admit to it.

So what about what follows? CATERPILLAR started out as something else entirely. Somewhere along the way, it turned into what might be a sort of sequel to DEAR DIARY. Or, if not a sequel, then a sequel to a sequel that doesn't exist yet. Because there are bits that don't quite fit. But if it feels like it is, that's fine too :-)))).

So – over to y'all. Here's CATERPILLAR.

CATERPILLAR

I grin.

If this was, like, a story, or a movie maybe, I'd be thinking some shit about how I've been waiting for this all my life, and now it's here. And that's crap, right? It's bad daytime TV. But as I check my watch for what must be the millionth time, for a cab I know isn't due for another hour, I grin again. Hell, maybe I have. Been waiting all my life, I mean.

I look round my apartment for what could be my last look. Well, if things work out. I mean, yeah. Even if they do, I'll be back. But it won't be 'my'. Because everything 'my' will be somewhere else. And even that's kind of wrong. Because everything 'my' will be... I check my watch again. Fuck. I wonder if it's broken. And I know I hope it's not – I still have things to do.

I check the list you sent me. It's been a month, so most of it's ticked off. But there's still some left. I go and stand in front of the full length mirror, and I grin some more. Funny. I've been doing a lot of that lately. Grinning, I mean. The girl in the mirror grins as well, so I wink at her. Fuck, girl. Long red hair, bright green eyes, and pretty much everything that's needed in pretty much every place it should be. Finding guys has never been a problem. Finding you? Fuck. I never even knew I was looking for you. I just knew none of the guys who found me were what I wanted, not for more than a night anyway, or maybe bit longer.The girl in the mirror grins at me, and sticks her tongue out. Fuck. Maybe there really is something to this 'waiting all my life' shit after all. I figure sticking my tongue out at my reflection is kind of dumb, so I put it back in my mouth. Damn. I wish I was putting it in...

Fuck. I check my watch. Fuck. Like, with extra fuck.

I check the list again. And I grin. Like, again. 'Caterpillar'. That was me, not you. And you laughed. You bloody laughed! I only said how it was like a caterpillar, and how they shed their skins, or climb out of their cocoons, or, like, whatever, so they can be butterflies. And you laughed, because you said I'd always been a butterfly – I just thought I was a caterpillar.

I grin again. I love your laugh.

But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Even if it is kind of dumb. And especially if it's her idea. So, like, yeah. Caterpillar. I think caterpillar, and I start to unbutton my shirt. Not quick, like, 'places to go, you to do' quick. And I grin again, because I think 'you to do', and I feel my nipples turning into rocks. But no. Slow. Caterpillars don't tear their skins off, or, like, their cocoons, and say 'fuck this, I've got a plane to catch.' No. It's slow. So I unbutton my shirt, and I do it slow. I unbutton, each button a slow slide of my fingers. Then I start to pull my shirt out of my jeans. I want to rip the damn thing off. Actually, I don't. I want you to rip the damn thing off. But it's not time for that, and I'm being a caterpillar. So I pull my shirt out of jeans, and I do it slow. Then I shrug my shoulders, so it slides. I shrug, and it slides, and I wriggle, and it slides – and it slides down me. It catches on my fingers, so I wriggle them too, and it slides some more, and drops to the floor. And any good girl would do what her mom taught her, and pick it up and hang it up. But fuck that. If my mom knew what I was doing, she'd have a fucking fit. And anyway, I'm not a girl right now. I'm a caterpillar. So I don't pick it up, and I don't fold it, and I don't put it away. I leave it where it is. Caterpillars don't care about the cocoon they're leaving behind. They want to fly. But there's more cocoon I have to lose, before I can fly. And I know flying doesn't mean the plane I have to catch. So I reach behind me, and I unclip my bra. I unclip it, and I let the band drop, and I lower my shoulders. The straps slide down my arms, and the cups slip off my breasts. As they slide, I see my nipples. I don't need to see them to know how hard they are. But I imagine you seeing them, and I grin some more – and they get even harder. But right now I'm not a girl with hard nipples, a wet cunt and a plane to catch. I'm a caterpillar, and I have a cocoon to leave, and caterpillars might wear bras, but butterflies? No. Butterflies are different. So I shrug again, and I let my arms drop, and my bra slides to the floor to join my shirt. And I unbutton my jeans.

The thing with jeans is, sliding isn't really their thing. At least not on their own. But that's the thing about being a caterpillar. Leaving the cocoon isn't necessarily easy. But it has to be done, if you're ever going to be a butterfly – if you're ever going to fly. So I unbutton my jeans, and I pull my zip down. I unzip slow – I like the sound. It's like a cocoon tearing. Then I push, and I wriggle, and I work my jeans down my thighs. It would be easier if I did it faster, pushed harder, but that's not the caterpillar way. And I want to stay as straight as possible, so I can watch the girl in the mirror, watch her strip. I mean, that girl is fucking hot. I needed you to show me that. I used to look at guys and think 'I wonder if he thinks I'm hot.' Fuck, even a girl once. You showed me I didn't need anyone else's opinion, anyone else's judgement. So I watch her strip, the girl in the mirror. I watch the caterpillar shedding it's skin, it's cocoon.

I ease my jeans down, and I slip my hips, and work my ass, teasing the tight denim over me, off me, away from me. And it's not a Vegas bump-and-grind. Though, and I grin some more, I wouldn't be too upset if you maybe want me to do one of those some time as well. It's just me, and I'm a caterpillar, and I don't want to be one any more. So my hips slide, my thighs work, my buttocks tighten and loosen – and the caterpillar sheds some more cocoon. Sheds it, and steps out, and kicks it away. Because whatever mom taught me about neatness, caterpillars aren't neat, and they don't care about the remnants of the cocoon they're leaving behind. So this caterpillar kicks her jeans away, and stands in front of the mirror in her grey silk panties. Grey silk she isn't going to need, because butterflies don't wear panties.

I grin again. Well, not unless... but that's not for now. Not for a caterpillar. That's for a butterfly, and that's not me – not yet.

So I slide my panties down my thighs, and I can see the silk is wet. I can see it, and I can smell it. Wet, and fresh, and all girl. Which isn't surprising, given how wet my cunt is. I grin some more. Do caterpillars have cunts? I figure probably not – after all, if they did, then they'd need other caterpillars with cocks. And I think cocks, and I think, like, your cock – and my cunt's even wetter, and my clit stiffens. And the girl in the mirror smiles as she pushes her panties down all the way, and steps out of them. And I'm naked in front of the mirror. I'm naked, and I run my hands over my breasts, pinching and twisting my nipples. I'm naked, and I let one hand drop, and slip my fingers into my cunt, my thumb on my clit. I'm naked, and I lick my lips, my mouth open, wishing so hard it was full of more than my tongue. And my nipples get harder, and my cunt gets wetter, because that's what you told me to do. Because that's what you wanted me to do.

And the girl in the mirror smiles wider.

But I'm not done. I have a plane to catch, and caterpillar or butterfly, gorgeous or not, the girl in the mirror isn't going to be let on any plane. She needs a new skin, even if it's only for a while. And she needs a butterfly skin, not a caterpillar cocoon. And I don't need to check your list this time, because I already did that, and I went through nearly every store in town. But it was worth it. So I get the store bags, and I empty them, and I lay the contents out. Because, just like caterpillars and butterflies, everything has its place, and everything has its time and everything has its order. So first, I pick up the black and red garter belt, and I put it round my waist, and clip it closed. And I remember asking you, why a garter belt? Why not hold ups? And you said how a garter belt was a useful thing for a butterfly to wear, because it needn't be just a garter belt, and wearing it meant it was always available if needed. And you told me what it could be used for, and my wrists tingle at the memory. So I said, like, wouldn't my stockings fall down if you used it like that? And you said how there was nothing to say a garter couldn't be used with hold ups as well, just for that reason. Which made sense. And I uncross my wrists, which have somehow got crossed behind my back, and I smile. I smile, and I slip the new black stockings out of their packing, and I roll them, and I ease them up my calves, up my thighs. And I do it slowly, because I'm still a caterpillar really. And I ease them up, and I adjust them so they're straight, and I clip the garter straps to my stocking tops. Then I get the forest green silk shirt, and I slide my arms in, and I button it, each button done up as slowly as I undid the other buttons. Because if a butterfly doesn't need panties, she doesn't need a bra either. So I do up the buttons, and my nipples make it clear I know the rules for good butterflies. Then I pick up the grey skirt. I look at it, and I hope it's as short as you told me it had to be. Then I step into it, and pull it up my stockinged legs. I do up the one button, and I pull up the short zip. I check in the mirror, and my garter straps don't show, and my stocking tops don't show – though it wouldn't take much for them to appear. I grin again. After all, that's sort of the point. And the skirt is short, but it isn't tight. It's loose enough for anyone who wants to to pull up, to lift. Of course, not just anyone. Only – and I grin again – only my Only One. And I get the thin leather belt, and I buckle it round my waist. And I grin again, when I remember what you said, and why butterflies always wear belts. And I slip into the three inch heels. Four would be nicer, but you said we'd have some walking to do, so three will have to do for now. Then I grab the bag with your present in, and I take another look round. And I was right. The apartment already feels like it's not mine, the scattered cocoon clothes on the floor. It's a caterpillar apartment – and I'm a butterfly.

Or I almost am. Because I have a plane to catch – and my cab's here.

********************************************

I walk out of Arrivals. My heels click and tap as they kiss the floor, and I can feel my thighs brush sweetly and whisper as my stocking tops slide against each other. I hate airports, but I don't hate this one. Not only is it a lot quicker when you don't have baggage to worry about, but this airport is different. Because I'm a butterfly, or I almost am. And I'm ready to fly – and the plane behind me has nothing to do with my wings. Because you do – and you're here, and I can see you. You're leaning back against a pillar, and your sunglasses are hooked into your T shirt. I walk towards you, my heels tipping their tappy floor kisses, my hips sliding and swaying, my nipples so fucking hard they'd cut glass, and my smile a mile wide. And I can see the bulge in your jeans, and for two pins and a wooden nickel, I'd go down on my knees and do something about it right fucking now. But it's not time for that yet. And I look into your eyes, and they're smiling as wide as my lips, just like I know mine are. And neither of us can resist any more, can wait any more, and I'm in your arms, and you're in mine, and I'm kissing you, and my tongue's in your mouth, and yours is in mine, and you lift me up in your arms, and you spin me round like we're not in the middle of a busy airport, surrounded by strangers.

And your tongue licks and twists round mine, and you hold me so close I know you can feel my nipples, and I know how hard your cock is. And we spin, and we spin – and I think we'll fall. Because we're both mad, both dizzy, and it's a lot more than the spinning that's making us like that. But we don't fall, and you stop spinning me round in your arms, though my head and my heart and my cunt don't see any reason to stop and they keep spinning as madly as we were. But you stop, and you put me down, and I straighten my skirt, and I smooth my shirt, and I wait. And I wait, and you wait, and you're grinning that fucking irritating, fucking lovely grin you do – and I know. You're not going to say it. So I stamp my foot, which is pretty much a waste of time in three inch heels, and even though I know I'm grinning too, I say 'Not fair! It's in the list!' And you grin, and I love it, even through you're an impossible bastard, and you say 'Well?' Just one word – 'well?' But that's enough, because it's in the list, and it's the right word.

So I straighten my back, and I push my shoulders back to make sure my breasts are properly presented, and I say 'Please, Sir – please check I'm not wearing a bra, Sir.' And you grin, and you say 'good girl.' Which is what the list says you're supposed to say. And you reach out, and you take my left nipple between your finger and thumb, and you pinch it, and you twist it, and neither is gentle. But they're not supposed to be, and we'd both be disappointed if they were. And you pinch my nipple, and you twist it, and you say it again. 'Good girl.' And we smile. We smile, and you wait. So I straighten again, and push my breasts out, to offer them to you, and I slide my left foot about three inches sideways, and I say 'Please Sir – please check I'm not wearing panties, Sir.' And I grin, and I slide my foot about another inch. And you smile too, and you lean in, and your tongue licks my lips, and you whisper in my ear. 'Good girl.' And your hand slides under the short grey skirt, and it gently slides up my thighs, caressing my stockings and the skin over my stocking tops, and your fingers slide into my cunt. They slide in, and they probe, and they push into me – then they pull out. And your hand comes out from under my skirt, and your fingers are wet with my wetness. And you brush your fingers over my lips and you coat them with my me. And you hold your fingers at my mouth, and I open my mouth, and I lick your fingers – lick my wetness off you. Then you push your fingers deep into my mouth, and I suck them. I suck them, and you pull them out, and I kiss you, my cunt juice wet on my lips. And you whisper in my ear – 'Good girl. Very, very good girl.'

So we go to your car, and you open the door for me, I get in. I get in, and there's a pair of handcuffs locked on a handgrip over the door. And that's in the list too, so I smile, and I wait while you lock the free cuff round my wrist. And before we move off, I unzip you, and I take you out of your pants, and you are so fucking hard. But I don't do anything except hold you in my hand, because you have to drive. And we drive, and you drive out of town, and you drive – and you pull over and park. You pull over, and we're next to a scrub path going down a slope – and I can see it. The hill. And I wonder how my three inch heels will manage on the slope up the hill, but the ground's dry and looks pretty hard, and the list says I'm not allowed to take my heels off. And you park, and you get out, and you unlock the cuffs from the handgrip over the door, and you help me out of the car. Then you lock the cuff onto your own wrist, and you take my cuffed hand in yours, and we walk down the slope, me locked onto your arm. We walk down the slope, and we climb up the hill, and yes, it's not easy in my heels. But I know I'm supposed to keep them on, so I go slowly and carefully, and you don't rush me – like you've never rushed me. And we get to the top, and it's like we can see forever. And we lie one our backs, next to each other, and we talk. We talk, and we remember, and we remember each day, each moment of how we got here, to the top of this hill. And your hand rests on my skirt, on my cunt, so I don't wait to be told, and I spread my legs to give you better access to what's yours. And your fingers toy with my pussy hair, and you pull it and tug, gently hurting me, but that's OK, even if it's not in the list. And your fingers slip between my open legs, and you slide them into my cunt, and I gasp. You slide into me, and your thumb rubs on my clit, and I moan. But I don't move, and I don't close my legs, because they're not mine to close. They're yours. And your fingers slide in me, and you tug on my pussy hair, and I want to come – but I know it's not time for that yet, and I know I don't have permission. So I gasp, and I moan, and I wait – because the list isn't finished yet, and I still have some cocoon to shed.

Then you get up. You get up, and you pull me to my feet, and you ask me if I'm ready. And I look you in the eyes, and my eyes are steady, and I know you can see I'm not scared, and I know you can see this is what I want, as much as you do. So I say 'yes, I'm ready.' And you say 'ready for what?' And I say 'ready for what I need. What we need.' And you say 'what do you need?' And I say it. Because it's on the list, and I'm not a butterfly – not yet. I say 'I need to be your Cunt, Sir. I need to be your Slut – your Slave. Please, Sir. Please be my Master. Please own me, Sir.' And you smile, and I can see your need in your eyes as much as I can feel my need in me. And you say 'And what else?' And I say 'Please Sir, I want to be be a good girl. Please hurt me, Sir. Please hurt me, and please enjoy hurting me, Sir.' And I turn round, turn my back to you. I turn round, and I spread my legs, and I bend over, and I take hold of my ankles. I take hold of my ankles, and I dip my back, to push up my bottom. And I know my skirt has ridden up properly, and I know my ass is bared to you, my garter straps tight over my buttocks. And I hear you pulling your wide leather belt out of your jeans. I hear you pull it out, and I imagine you doubling it in your hand. And I imagine your arm going back, and swinging forward. And then I don't have to imagine, because your doubled belt slams into my bottom, my ass. It slams into my ass, and it isn't any play-tap. It fucking hurts. And I know, we know, it has to hurt, and to hurt a great deal. So it can mean something, to both of us, and so we both know it can happen again, so we can accept how we both want it to happen, any time you want it to. So we can both know it's just as OK for you to hurt me as it is for you to fuck me, or to kiss me. And so we both know I want you to do it. To hurt me, and to enjoy it. To fuck me, and for me to please you. To kiss me, and for you to be kissed, because you're my Master, and I'm your Cunt, and I want to please you every way I can.

And your arm goes back, and you swing forward, and your belt slams into my ass. And your arm goes back, and your arm comes forward, and you whip me again. You whip me, and the crack of leather on woman rings out, and rings out, and rings. And it fucking hurts. But I know I have to keep hold of my ankles, and to not fall over, and to keep my back dipped, and to keep my ass presented, because that's my place. That's what I'm here for. And I know too I can stop it any time I want.

But I don't. I don't want.

And you keep whipping me. You whip me, and I try to hold it back, but you whip me, and I scream. I scream, and I cry, and my tears fall – and you stop. You stop, and you wait. And it's on the list, so I say it. I say 'Please, Master. Please whip me again.' And your belt slams into my ass again, once, twice, three times. And you drop your belt, and you lift me up, and you take me in your arms, and you kiss me. You kiss me, and your tongue is in my mouth, and it's like i want to swallow you whole. I want all of you, in me and round me, holding me and being the part of me I never knew I was missing. And I look in your eyes, and I know my eyes are wet, my tears many, but I know my eyes are smiling. And I say 'fuck, that hurt.' And you ask me if I'm OK, and my lips smile as well as my eyes, and I say 'fuck, yeah.' And oyu know i mean it. So you ask me if I liked it, liked you hurting me. And i want to say yes, but I want to say no too. So I think about it. And I say how, no, it wasn't that I liked it hurting. It wasn't that the pain felt good. But it felt fucking good that you were hurting me. That you wanted to hurt me, and you were enjoying hurting me, and that I wanted to be what you were enjoying. And I say how I wanted you to hurt me, because I wanted to please you, and that pleasing you gave me all the pleasure I needed. Oh – and that it still fucking hurt, but please, would you do it again? Like, any time you wanted? Like, pretty please? And I know I'm still crying, but I grin some more. And you grin, and you step back, and you wait. And I know what's on the list, and I'm almost done. And even though there's no mirror, I know the girl in it is smiling. And she smiles as I slowly unbutton my forest green shirt. And she smiles as I slowly tug it out of my skirt. And she smiles as I shrug, and it drops to the ground. And she smiles as I reach back, and unbutton the one button of my skirt, and unzip the short zip – and it sounds like the last part of a cocoon tearing. And she smiles as I let the skirt drop to the ground, and I step out of it. And she smiles as I smile, and I stand properly undressed for my Master. And she smiles even wider as you take the carved wooden box from the bag you've been carrying. And she smiles even wider as you open it, and you take out what's in it. And you step close, and you show it to me. And it gleams, red in the sunlight. And you say how it's gold, and it's copper, to make it red gold. And I say, like, won't that make it soft? Because gold is soft? And won't it bend? And you say how it has nickel in it, to make it hard, and it won't bend. So I ask you how you got the nickel in? And you say you've no idea – you just spent every dime you had on it, and you wanted it that way to match my hair. And I grin, and I reach out, and I take hold of you, and I say how I didn't mean that. I say how there must be a fuck load of nickel in what's in my hand, to make it so hard, and I sure hope it doesn't bend, because I intend to keep it very busy. And you grin, and you show me the locket hanging from my present, and you open it, and you show me the emerald inside. Red gold for my hair, and emerald for my eyes. And I want to kiss you, I'm so happy.

And you grin,and your hips move, and you slide in my hand, and you are so fucking hard.

And the sun gleams, and my present gleams, and you tell me to lift up my hair. So I reach back, and I lift up my long red hair. And you lock your collar round my throat.

And I smile so wide, I could burst.

And your Slut drops to her knees. Your Cunt takes your cock in her mouth. And your Slave sucks you, pleases you, loves you – until your cock pulses, and your cock thrusts deep into her face – and you come in me.

And I kneel with your cock in my mouth, and your come in my throat, and I feel the sun warm on my skin, and your collar round my neck, red in the sun. And I know my shirt and my skirt are behind me, but I know they're not really clothes. They're really just the last of my cocoon. And I think of your present, still in the car. The present i bought for you, chose for you, and for me, like you ordered me to. The riding crop, that I chose and held, and imagined you using on me. The dressage whip. The ball gag, for times you might want to use me hard, and to keep me silent, silent in your service, but happy in your use of me.

And my Master thrusts into my mouth again, and my Master takes hold of my hair, and my Master pulls my head onto his cock again, and my Master thrusts deep into my throat – and I know I'm not a caterpillar any more.

I'm a butterfly – and I fly.