I actually meant in case I had more gas than he did, or, hell, I’m not sure what I meant. I needed to learn to shut up.
Sir would teach me.
Away we sped on the beautiful glassy streets, part of the night, part of the city, part of the play.
Every few minutes Sir gently, firmly, methodically ran his hand over the full length of my leg, the smooth silky nylon, and the bare skin between my legs, gently probing the fluff of the furrow there, and back down to squeeze my knee. Occasionally he momentarily lingered to work deeper into my clit, and I felt a dizzying whirlpool pulling me down; a whirlpool from which I wished never to emerge.
We were silent on this ride except for the occasional comment from Sir on the sound of the engine, or my ‘beautiful legs’. I was so wrapped up in the feel of his hands that I couldn’t think. He had me in a stupor.
We drove on and on into the soft, velvet night. I was lost in the hypnotic, droning of the engine and in watching the streaks of rain on the windshield, but especially lost in Sir’s hands touching me—his large, artistic hands running over me. Something strange and cauterizing was happening as we drove; time melted. Suddenly we were the center of the universe—the only real beings that existed. Time, space, and all that’s supposed to be real began to fade away in this mystical ether world. Lights strobed by, cars, trucks. I saw them abstractly, but they weren’t ‘real’, driven by ‘real’ people, only by non-entities that we allowed to exist as extras in the play.
I was becoming totally captivated by Sir and this soothing journey.
When he wasn’t touching me I would timidly and reverently take his hand, lift it to my lips, and kiss the length of it ever so gently. It made me shiver that he tolerated this. Looking back now, I’m even more amazed that he did.
I was so content to be next to him, so utterly relaxed, that for some reason I ignored everything—the road signs, what direction we were going, and everything else marking where we passed. This was totally unlike me, the usually observant, self-protective creature I’d always been. I was the one who took mental notes of any room she was in, of the people there, the escape routes in case of… what? Attack? I don’t know, just in case. I was Gretel; dropping breadcrumbs to mark the way back home for Hansel and me.
Snapping awake, this fact of my inattentiveness suddenly dawned on me. I really had no idea where we were. I sat up, startled.
“I haven’t been paying attention!” I said to myself, aloud albeit in a whisper. “I don’t have any idea where we are.”
Sir made no comment. Was that a smug little smile on his face? My predicament seemed, ironically to suit him just fine.
Like our surroundings, his demeanor was rapidly changing, too. He was darker, sterner; more focused.
I looked around a bit panicky. I would correct my SNAFU immediately. I would observe our location. Range-find! Yes! But it was no use. I plopped back. There was no range to find, no tree to climb. It felt so odd. I have rarely been lost, totally lost. I was now. Hell, I could have been in Bolivia for all I knew. How could I have been so flaky? What had happened to me? Sir had happened to me.
I would have been embarrassed…if this creeping helplessness wasn’t so damn delicious.
The territory, now that I noticed, had drastically changed as well. No more city lights, no more expressway. When did we get off the expressway? How had I allowed myself to become so oblivious? The ‘usual’ me liked to be in control. At all times. This is the real reason I don’t drink or do drugs. Pot alone screws me up so badly I’m a paranoid mess. I probably want it that way so I won’t indulge and lose control. Yeah, I’m a real party pooper, but hey, somebody sober has to man the drones.
So now I had not a clue as to which direction I had traveled or how far, or even what state I was in. I shivered with incongruous excitement. This was bad, this was real bad. In a minute I would consider thinking about being concerned… in a minute.
Or later. Or. …
At least I was paying attention now. I noted we were driving down a wooded lane; it was dark and it was twisty turn-y with overhanging trees here and there. No street lights. Rural. Yeah, that told me a lot.
At last the car slowed and Sir eased into the dim parking lot of what appeared to be a tiny neighborhood tavern. It was so dark I wasn’t able to get a good look. Curious but silent, I struggled to pick up on something, anything that would assure Dorothy she was still in Kansas. But what was I thinking? We hadn’t been in Kansas since I’d climbed in Sir’s car!
Sir slowly circled around and stopped. There was a wooded lot on the right, the road in front of us slightly curving past a bunch of trees, and the dimly lit, friendly-only-to-its-own little bar on our far left.
Sir opened his door.
“Looks like a good place to take a leak,” he stated quietly, stepping out and disappearing in the darkness behind the car. Sir and his ‘leaks’ in the wild.
My eyes were wide but kept respectfully straight ahead as I peeked out of the fur collar into which it was entirely pleasant now to burrow. I snuggled down, more relaxed and contented. Somehow I wasn’t worried any more. I knew where we were; we were ‘here’.
A minute later Sir reappeared, climbed back into the car, and settled down silently. I simply waited patiently. Anything he did was all right with me.
“What time is it?” He asked after a minute.
I looked at my watch.
“Nine-twenty.”
Sir glanced around as if expecting someone. “We’re going to wait here a few minutes,” he informed, matter-of-factly. I remained acquiescent, but for some strange reason I began to feel all tingly, like when you’re sitting by a campfire at night and you feel something watching you. It’s the kind of feeling that makes you shove your back against a wall, climb a tree, run, or freeze. I usually freeze. You know, like a rabbit. A silly wittle wabbit.
The dim lights of the pub now backlit Sir, who sat facing me. Those same lights illuminated me. I could make out neither Sir’s features, his expression, nor tell if he was even looking at me. I didn’t even know if his eyes were open or shut. Unnerving. I felt his eyes on me, though, and that eerie tingling that I had previously, now accelerated exponentially. It was not unpleasant; no, it was wildly exciting. Overwhelmingly exciting.
“You are just beaming,” the black shadow quietly remarked.
So he was looking at me. I smiled and snuggled further into my coat. Mmmmmm.
Suddenly Sir Leaned over and kissed me warmly, as he held me and stroked my hair. It was so soothing the kitten in me purred. He kissed me again and all at once I didn’t care if we never moved from that spot. His lips were hot, insistent, dominating. I melted under their flaming touch. The passion mounted as I kissed him back. Too soon he pulled away.
“What time is it now?” He asked again.
I pushed up my sleeve. “Nine-thirty-five.”
He hesitated briefly. “Just a few more minutes,” he advised, his voice thickening. “Then we can go.”
Go, stay, whatever. At this point I was euphorically floating and all I wanted was for him to kiss me again. I knew I was becoming entranced with his voice, his touch, his kiss, but I didn’t want it to stop. It was like sliding into a warm spa, all bubbling and soothing and intoxicating.
He kissed me once more and then sat back as if getting ready to start the engine. I turned to look into the woods on my right and began to arrange my coat across my knees in anticipation of leaving. That’s when it happened. …
“OK, we can go,” Sir said with dark finality, and then: “I’m going to blindfold you.”
I did not start at what he said, because, funny thing, as I was turning to glance out of the window I simply must have heard him wrong. Odd, what could I have heard that sounded like…?
Boom! Quickly and with no hesitation, Sir was slipping a cloth over my eyes, encircling my head with it, and tying it firmly at the back. I felt his sharp tug at the knots, two of them. I was utterly speechless! Still sure that my
senses were completely wrong I was too startled to panic. The movement was so smooth, quick, and flawless, it just didn’t seem real. I was sure it wasn’t. I had to be imagining all this, but what a fantasy!
“Can you see?” Sir asked.
I thought about this for a minute then slowly shook my head in answer. Right on cue, my hands dropped into my lap, folded as if they were bound. It only seemed natural, given the blindfold.
“Just relax.” Sir purred, overwhelmingly soothingly. I did. “Are you afraid?” He asked more boldly, his voice gravelly. The inquiry shot into my ears, bounced off my brain, rebounded throughout my body, and paralyzed my lungs as I searched for any fear.
“No.” I answered in half time, as the information relayed back sector by sector. If I felt any fear it was totally numbed by the undercurrent of electricity emanating from Sir. Any possible fear was nullified by his mesmerizing voice making everything happen around me in slow-mo
I heard the car start, and the darkness from my blindfold was absolute.
My mind started cranking. I was now in a play:
Act One: Scene Three:
Lady Guinevere stands before the bewigged magistrate bound and blindfolded. The lights dance on the woman’s slender figure as she stands alone in the large, dim, and echoing chamber. Obviously an aristocrat, she is clothed in a long gown of rich turquoise brocade, the waist cinched and neckline sweeping. Her hair, lighted softly by the torches hung on the damp stone walls, is encrusted with pearls, and curled and piled in an elegant, 16th century coiffure. She stands silent and helpless before the court, accused of…
... Of what? My mind snapped back. I could see nothing; I felt only Sir’s hand caressing my legs as he parted my coat for the third time that evening and pushed my knee back into the widened position of previous. He did not speak to me again. Silence was the only logical answer to the moment, and the overwhelming desire I had to keep my hands fixed tightly together, palms turned upward on my lap was impossible to deny. To do anything else seemed ludicrous. It was as if a spike had been driven through both palms, anchoring them in place.
The silence and wonderful darkness held me literally captive, though this was not logical. There was no reason why I couldn’t at any given moment raise my hands, fling the scarf from my eyes, and reclaim my sight. But yet, the logic of it all kept getting pushed further and further into the back of my mind. I must keep still. I must keep my hands together just so. The play must continue. I am the sentenced Lady Guinevere, after all.
I listened, more aware now of the sounds of the road. With heightened senses I experienced more acutely each turn, each slowing, each acceleration, but now with eyes closed the motion was rhythmic, lulling, like a cradle rocking; Sir’s hands touching me were achingly soothing. I could feel him looking at me, or so I imagined. The pit of helplessness into which I was tumbling was becoming increasingly more sensual. I was no longer part of myself; I was a child hiding in the dark. I could see but not be seen, or was it the other way around? I could no longer tell. My head was swimming and nothing was making sense any more except giving up and giving in… submitting.
The car slowed to a stop. We parked. The mind wants to fill in the blanks—at least an artist’s mind does—so I imagined that we were on a shore somewhere, a riverbank perhaps? There was a distinct watery smell, thick and permeating.
Sir tugged down on the blindfold.
“Leave it down! OK?” He was suddenly gruff, as if I had done something wrong. I nodded. “I’ll be back to get you in a minute. Sit there!”
I felt Sir open my coat further and carefully push it completely off my body. Equally carefully he arranged my legs apart, with one knee more to the side across the console. Suddenly I was Venus DeMilo, sitting in the spot where he had sculpted me. I held my hands where they were nailed. At this point I couldn’t move them if I tried. It didn’t even occur to me to try. Sir had posed me. He had said ‘sit there’. I sat.
Sir exited the car leaving the loud engine running. I tried to imagine what taking place; where he was; where we were in location to where we had been; how long it had taken us to drive here—wherever ‘here’ was. Minutes passed as I waited still as a stone.
Finally I heard the handle of my door being pressed, but I had locked it at the beginning of the trip—old habit. My hands suddenly released themselves; I felt for the knob and pulled it. Someone opened the door and hands touched me.
It was Sir, I could tell as soon as we connected. I waited for the blindfold to be taken off. It wasn’t.
“I’ll guide you,” he said.
Brimming with anticipation I stepped gingerly onto what felt like large, flat, uneven stones. Sir took my hands and firmly lifted me over each one.
“Come on, I’ve got you,” he cooed. His voice was soothing again. He spoke in tones people use to calm a wild animal. It was incredibly intoxicating and provocative.
I swayed as I hesitantly took a step. I trusted Sir, but somehow it was getting harder to keep from freaking. Head Games. God. Crazy what your mind conjures up when you can’t use all your senses. Crazy, and delicious, and heavenly.
Always in control. ‘I’m still in control’, I repeated to myself. At any given moment I can do ‘Iponsianage’ or ‘Tomoinagge’, or one of my favorite major reaping throws and send whoever was out there flying.
This, of course, was silly, because it was Sir out there, and Sir had said he would take care of me, hadn’t he? He had promised he wouldn’t let anything happen to me, ever. He had repeated this in the most uncertain terms and in the most reassuring tones. Besides, I can always run. I’m so fast, I can practically fly, I thought. That, of course, too was silly. Nobody could outrun Sir.
Sir was cautioning me to be very quiet. I slipped and made a remark about my heels. He admonished me again more sternly.
My brain was screaming ‘bolt!’ But something much more persuasive told me to do exactly as Sir said. I obeyed the latter.
We were now inside a room, somewhere. I knew a door had opened and Sir had led me inside. Music that I at first heard faintly was gradually growing louder. I was really starting to need to know what was going on. It wasn’t a full-fledged panic attack yet, mind you—just mounting apprehension. No. Not panic. I refused to panic. That wasn’t my style. Besides, the Impostor-That-Was-Not-Really-Me was handling this. I was all snug and safe inside.
Ah, the ever-protective ‘Impostor’ persona. I would call on her many times in later years.
“Step down,” Sir was telling me. “Now watch your head; duck down.”
Into a cavern? ... the bottom of a boat? … the smoky back room of a bar? No! Into an underground chamber! Yes! That’s where we were going! Into some secret, sacred, torch-lit, Satanic temple with alters and ram’s horns, and old, dusty, leather-bound books chock full of mysterious symbols. GAH!
I would open my eyes, whenever my guide would allow it, to blink and focus on tall, hooded figures without faces, encircling a crudely drawn Pentagram, chanting terrible, frightening phrases and beckoning to me to come! Helplessly I would walk to them in a trance, silent, forbidden by a spell to scream. At the last possible second, I would glance over my shoulder for Sir, my eyes pleading for help, only to recoil in horror as he too had donned a long, black robe!
Mind Games…
My heart was pounding. Screwing with my own mind. Is that what a blindfold does? Yes. It is exactly.
I sniffed. Pot. No time to think about it, I had to listen.
Sir was telling me to take off my coat. I did. He sat me back and down on something soft and overstuffed, and then he stepped away. Silence. And for a brief moment I was abandoned. Alone. For a brief moment there was no Sir, and I was floating on an empty sea.
Within seconds real panic started to build. I was ready to bolt and run but...
... then he caught me. Just in time. He caught me. He knew. He could sense I was about to go over the edge.
The couch beside me weighted, strong arms enveloped me, and
a warm mouth descended on mine. The kiss was strange somehow—unfamiliar, foreign, frightening. The up and down of my emotions was wearing me thin. ‘Up’ was gaining rapidly. I tried to fight it, but things were getting way too strange, even for me.
“Are you afraid?” The deep voice spat, dark and sinister. It was the same question asked before in the car, but this time it was different. The hot body was so close.
Who was that? The harsh words dropped a lid on my coffin. They were cold like a knife blade stabbing. There was no concern in that hollow, icy voice as frigid as the depths of space.
I had no time to dwell on it. I needed to answer him to keep just ahead of the mounting panic. My Impostor dashed me behind a fragile smile and shoved the panic back down its own throat.
“No.” I heard the Impostor purr, audaciously flippant, lips in a pout, “should I be?”
Sir made no reply. Obviously I’d taken him by surprise.
The Cutesy Little Bitch Impostor had taken over. ‘You must be in control!’ she screamed in my head. So she grabbed the restricting blindfold and tore it away.
In a heartbeat the genie was sucked back into the bottle. Sir’s magic was suspended. The Imposter laughed to be in charge again. She couldn’t help but laugh. She was momentarily delighted to have won this tiny battle.
I knew it was wrong—to allow The Imposter to upstage this way—but I was hiding behind her now and she just couldn’t help herself. No way was she apologizing for being a scorpion, when a scorpion was exactly what she was.
I had sensed someone else in the room before I descended the stairs. Neither from sound—because this person was the epitome of silence—nor from any of my normal five senses. This came in on the sixth one. I had felt his eyes upon me; felt his uneasiness; felt his hesitation; and I knew it was all caused…
… by ME.
Good!
I had been pretty sure that there was only one other person. I could even sense his relative position from his soft breathy sighs, and I could tell he was in no hurry to tangle with me. How delightful.
Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir Page 10