But, mercifully he released me.
Finally, he released me.
My hands unbound, my waist untied, I stood—trembling and afraid to move—awaiting further judgment, but my Owner merely handed me the green bag. Time was up; we had to go.
It was never good to remain in one spot too long. Who knew what creatures lurked in the dimness of the night, bouncing off the dimness of their shriveled little brains? I’m sure my Owner would have shot them had we been threatened, but why risk the mess? Better to retreat and live to whip another day.
Obediently I quickly collected the objects, plucking up the blanket, restraints, gag, whip and paddle and stuffing them into the bag. Noticing that the Wire and one of my large, black loop earrings were missing, I knew also that in this shadowy, leafy basin by the tiny stream, in the darkness and time allotted I’d never find them. They would remain a bit of sacrifice, along with my fear and ecstasy to hallow the spot forever. My Owner allowed me only a few moments to hunt for them, and then gestured ‘go’.
I gathered the bag and my cascading skirt and trotted up the path, which was not an actual path at all but the merest hint of trampled foliage through the thicket—an area slightly less impenetrable than the rest.
I navigated the brambles as best I could in my heels, totally disregarding the snaring branches and not the least concerned with any creeping, crawling creature beneath my feet. I was in a state of elation, bordering on hysteria, and to run in my liberation filled me with ecstatic ebullience. I dug in with spike heels, sprinted up the little slippery embankments, and virtually flew over the grassy knolls, parting the shoulder-high branches with one hand while holding my gear and skirt with the other.
My Owner was easily in step behind me; to flee from him was neither my desire nor a possibility. I just needed to breathe. My happiness buoyed me as though I had wings; as though I were part of the night. Nothing could harm me now. I, like the man behind me, was invincible.
I reached the clearing at the top of the hillock, and knowing instinctively to stop I waited like a rabbit in the shadows until I felt his presence.
“Raise your skirt,” he murmured. I shivered and held my breath.
I lifted my skirt high in both hands, slipping the bag’s drawstring over my wrist.
My Owner had snapped a long, slender branch and, testing its suppleness in the air, let it sing.
“Walk,” he whispered, lowly and firmly.
I obeyed.
The first stroke stunned me. I gasped. It was a different sensation than the Wire, eliciting yet a different kind of pain. Oddly there are myriad categories of pain/pleasure, and as with masochism, different degrees.
“Walk!” My Owner commanded.
With satisfied murmurs he sliced the keen switch liberally across my body. At each step a new welt was applied. I was not permitted to walk excessively fast; the pleasure was over when my Owner decided it was over. It was perhaps four-hundred feet to a hopeful reprieve.
“Stop!” He quietly ordered as we neared the edge of the woods. “Bend over; raise your skirt higher.” He could prolong the pleasure as long as he wished.
I whimpered, but complied and braced to receive a fiery peppering on my already welt-covered ass. With the new barrage I cried out and buckled, disobediently dropping to my knees to dodge the kisses.
My Owner was enraged.
“Raise that ass!” He hissed impatiently.
Heart pounding, I immediately complied. He began the welts anew.
“Oh, Sir!” I squeaked my pleas at the searing pain. “Wasn’t I good? Wasn’t I…” my words came in choking spurts, “… wasn’t I good, like you wanted me to be! Sir?!” My voice was shrill and jerky as I struggled to contain it.
My Owner paused, leaving me to writhe still bent at the waist, too afraid to rise.
“You were exactly what I wanted,” he offered. How the words made me ecstatic in spite of my agony. “... almost,” he qualified. But it was too late; all I heard was the prior benediction, and the blessing was nearly too much to bear.
I was ‘exactly’ what he wanted. ‘EXACTLY.’
He let me hold that position for another few seconds to reinforce to whom I humbly belonged and to show me and anyone watching that he and he alone controlled me.
“Now walk,” he growled, at last.
The switching continued—on my welt-covered ass and down my legs, with particular attention paid to that spot where cheeks meet thighs—one of his favorites. I walked at solely the pace he dictated and saw at last, with agony-dulled eyes, the lights of my house glimmering through the brush.
My Owner could whip me with guaranteed anonymity no longer; we were too close to civilization. Indulgently, he allowed me to scurry ahead, my heels slipping here and there on the wet rocks in the last few yards of the concealing woods. I felt airborne.
I let go my skirt, scrambled along the dark path to the bottom of the final ridge, and then jumped, unladylike, over the rock-dotted rivulet five yards from my patio. Convenient, these huge, untamed woods stretching behind my house to aid and abet our sadistic pleasures. How ironic:
... they belonged to a church. …
Once inside, I assumed it was over. To the contrary, as I stepped out of my muddied heels my Owner called me to him. Taking my hand he silently ushered me before the mirrored bathroom door. He gave a tug at my dress and I immediately removed it. Dropping to my knees at my tall Owner’s feet, I cringed as my eyes caught a glimpse of the atrocity that was now my lacerated stockings.
My Owner never liked me to soil or ruin my stockings. I knew I would be punished for that, an electrically charging concept. That this god of a man would take his time to guide me, mold me, to bother patiently to form me into something he could tolerate to use, and abuse, for his unique pleasure totally thrilled and humbled me. It was an endless insanity that incomprehensibly tantalized me. I would accept any and all discipline he cared to bestow to help mold me into a semblance of acceptability.
He allowed me to unzip his fly and take the warmth that was my god’s manhood into my mouth again. I pleasured him for several long minutes, slurping and licking, sucking like a whore at his dick, grateful that I was not being whipped. I did my best in every way I knew to satisfy him, to make him cum. I wanted that like a bird wants wind beneath its wings. I wanted to taste his sweet, salty cum on my tongue and to hear him roar. I wanted that, but it was not yet to be.
No.
He, watching me in the dimly lit mirror decided to abuse me further. He raised the switch above his head while I cringed and shut my eyes.
“No, watch,” he directed in a tone of gracious indulgence, as if offering a bite of a delicious steak.
Eerily, I obeyed. Mesmerized I watched as the first blow struck, and I watched as the tenth or the twentieth or however many blows he gave me struck as well.
“See how the skin quivers?” He spoke with utter adoration.
I did see. I shivered in morbid fascination as my skin trembled and the redness beneath the welt materialized. It was poetic. ‘Sexual poetry’, my Owner called it. Oh, it certainly was.
I watched now, oddly, in absentia, as if it were happening to someone else, an experience that I seemed to have often while under his spell. If I could envision the event happening to someone else—some other lucky woman—I could step outside my body and safely watch her ordeal completely without pain. It was so very strange.
It was in this way I curiously watched her now. Nevertheless, the phenomenon never lasted long. Soon the pain, the glorious and horrible, gut-wrenching pain brought me back to my body and to the suffering I alone was meant to endure.
My Owner, as I had anticipated, admonished me for my carelessness concerning my stockings. Not that either of us expected anything could have spared them; but even more delicious, the punishment simply because he willed it. For I had given myself to him completely long ago in a sincere vow:
'…whatever you wish, for as long as you wish, M’lord'.
When he finished, my body was totally welt-covered. I had never been so thoroughly marked. From breast to ankle, every spot but my arms and face were lined with the most beautiful, possessing welts. Some fine lines were slightly oozing traces of blood; some had already gone from blue to black. All were lovely to behold and even lovelier to experience.
This was the point I was the highest; when it was over and I could celebrate the marks which would last at least a week. Words cannot describe the ecstasy I felt. Clit throbbing, cumming at the slightest breeze across my exquisitely-swollen vulva, body rippling with waves of pleasure, and me head over heels in love with the Owner of my soul was it in sum total, all rolled into one.
For days after such a glorious session I would go into the ladies room at work and touch myself to orgasm in the beauty of these incredible, inflamed badges of proof that I was indeed owned, and that indeed my Owner cared enough to make me his. In every way, I belonged to him. In every way, he possessed me. I was his.
Over and over through the years I was ritualistically abused and claimed in the most exquisite, unmistakable rites. All the time I gave myself to it, asked for him to claim me, and begged for him never to stop. I had lost count of how many times I had been whipped, fucked, and had my throat filled with cum.
Tonight he had whipped me, used my ass and my mouth, and finally brought me to orgasm as he penetrated my backside. He had fashioned a new Wire to whip me further as he pumped deep into my ass. Stroke over black stroke on my erotically marked, obediently presented flesh was laid, while he fucked me so deeply up my obliging rectum that I had to bury my face in a pillow to contain my cries of delight. It was incredible, the sensation of the live wire cloak of welted skin, touched by his hands as he leaned me over the couch and fucked me with abandon. The friction of his thick cock rubbing me inside my ass, the heat like a volcano building to eruption, all was pleasure wrapped in a shawl of liquid silk. I pounded back to meet him with every stroke, feeling his hair tickling my crotch and his balls slapping against my ass cheeks; a beautiful sound. I loved it all, every sensation, ever pain/pleasure, every outrageous thought that filled my head waiting for him to fill my ass with his magma cum.
I muted my sighs and moans in the cushions as I felt my own cum mounting. It was uncontrollable, and it was going to be sensational. A cum among cums. How addicted I was. Hopelessly, helplessly, impossibly. I was way in over my head.
I knew I was allowed to cum now with his cock inside me fucking away. I was always allowed to cum while being used, but not independently without his manhood inside me in some port, or otherwise not without his explicit permission. But this fucking was insanity! I had to cum. I couldn’t help it.
In fact, more than once I had been severely punished for unauthorized self-pleasure. Even with him inside me, at times, as a game, I was strictly forbidden to cum. Just an added touch, a little further discipline. A sweet delight. Once he had told me I was not permitted to cum until he used me again, a discipline of two weeks that nearly drove me insane, and instigated a terrible breech of rules on my part which he, thank god, let slide. I could have been strung up by my thumbs for it. Oh man. I shudder to think.
But he didn’t cum in my ass; tonight my Owner’s pleasure was to cum in my mouth. He pulled out of my ass and presented directly to my waiting tongue, all my ass juices still swaddling his pulsing, slippery cock. A few unmerciful poundings of my face, holding onto my head with his thick hands wrapped in my hair and I was rewarded with an enormous load of his delicious thick, sticky cum. It spurted in waves down my throat as I gulped to swallow it. As was ritual, as soon as I drank the entirety of it, I was to sit back on my heels and thank him for using my mouth as a depository for his sacred cum. Then I was to stick out my tongue to receive the last drips of his sweet, thick cream which he milked out. Finally I was permitted to wrap my hand gently around his huge, throbbing cock and gratefully lick the head of his penis clean.
My Owner’s cum—and his alone—tasted good to me. I chalked it up to chemistry, like the fact that even his sweat, to me, smelled like the sweetest ambrosia. I could literally lap the perspiration from him and happily savor the scent on my tongue. Chemistry. Just one more way in which I was exquisitely bonded to him.
Now, the ritual satisfied, my Owner raised and hugged me tenderly. I was exhausted; completely spent and bent to his will. He caressed my hair and cuddled me like a beloved child. My suffering for my stockings and for not being 100% what he wanted behind us, it was time for him to go. I shivered as he squeezed my welted body, endearing me to him even more. He was my god, this man in whose arms I was now being lovingly cradled like a newborn babe.
I watched him drive away in his tall, high-set Mercedes as it silently slid down the street. The fingers of my right hand formed the magic symbol, ‘I love you’ so he could see as he drove away.
I knew in our unparalleled universe, in that moment in time we were the only ones who existed or mattered at all.
2—School
“If everything’s not black and white I say why the hell not.”
How did it all begin?
A few years before, fall session had just commenced at the Institute of Art and Photography. The semester for which I was late in registering was already two weeks underway, but somehow, miraculously, I had still squeaked in. My artwork—presented in a black plastic trash bag, of all things, like a pearl hiding in a rough-shelled oyster—nonetheless apparently duly impressed my teachers. Not only was I accepted, I was given a scholarship for several classes based solely on my talent.
I was elated.
When I received my beautiful, new-and-official-portfolio-case complete with all the necessary artist’s gadgets and supplies, I could not contain my excitement. Surely this must be a dream!
Gleefully I squirreled the oversized Naugahyde portfolio case home, skipped to my bedroom, and reverently lay its entire contents on the bed. For hours I fondled every golden nugget, envisioning me actually using each instrument. I was to be a degreed artist! The prospect made me giddy. Little did I know, as I registered for classes that hot, brilliantly sunny afternoon, the loop of the awesome power into which I was tapping—power into which my brain had been longing to tap for decades.
At the Institute, the strangeness that is the art world was all around me. I, ever the enigma, in my own way was strangest of them all. Dressed in professional business attire and heels, the contrast to my classmate’s ripped jeans and bawdy sweatshirts was ludicrous. I had little choice. I came to class each day straight from my part-time job, a job where the dress code was strictly enforced.
I was lucky to have rare free parking in the city garage of the building where I worked, but I barely got out of the office each day in time to hoof the half-mile to school before class started. We weren’t allowed to be late to class; a whole letter-grade was dropped if you were even once. So I force-marched myself like a mad woman down the busy streets in triple time each day, weaving in and out of traffic—both pedestrian and auto—in a race for my scholastic life. There I was, sprinting along in heels with my forty-pound portfolio case sailing behind me like a kite in the wind-tunnel streets, praying I wouldn’t snap a heel. What a site!
I remember the first time I saw him.
3—Sir
“You gotta learn that you can’t have everything your own way.”
Sitting.
We were just sitting.
Actually managing to arrive a few minutes early my second day of school, I was making small talk with a few students in the tiny break room as we ticked down the minutes before class. Some ‘break room’; it was little more than a crowded cubbyhole with a few chairs and a pop and snack machine wedged in. There was no door at the entry to close, so from our vantage point we had a clear shot of the elevators a few feet away.
Suddenly…
OH…MY…GOD—there he was.
The elevator door slid open and out drifted this incredible hunk from a sexy wet dream. The implosion
sucked the air right out of my lungs.
In a flash my whole world went kaboom, complete with fireworks, roman candles, and drums going off in my head. On this sweltering afternoon, not ten feet away an absolute fireball had exploded, and it all took place in slow-mo.
As never before, the first sight of a man had floored me. As soon as he floated by I had to know his name, where he came from, if he was married, anything; everything! As nonchalantly as possible, trying not to give myself away, I grilled my classmates. One of the guys a short, banty rooster named Aaron, beamed his Cheshire cat grin and chimed, “Him? Oh, that’s big ___. He’s having a hard time adjusting to civilian life now that he’s out of the Commandos.”
One of the girls, an anorexic black chick who, for some unknown reason considered herself one hellova hot fox wrinkled her nose and smirked, “Nahhh, he’s not my type. Now who I could really go for is D,” and she giggled provocatively, because D was sitting five feet from her. Yeah, real subtle.
D just beamed his signature toothy grin and rolled his eyes.
“Oh, man, he’s just my type,” I murmured so quietly no one could hear.
I scurried to the classroom where I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to hide my drooling over this man-mountain with his lumberjack shoulders, trim waist, and aura of the gods. I stole sideways glances every time this chiseled Greek God moved, lithely navigating the wooden art tables like a jungle cat. I’d have gladly lain right down on that floor and let that cat sink his teeth into me! I couldn’t breathe he was so beautiful. Never has a man affected me like this.
Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir Page 2