Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  This person was at ease concerning the territory, so I had to assume this place belonged to him. I am sorry to report I sensed only human kindness coming from this being, though, nothing more.

  Darn! What a shame! That’s no fun to toy with.

  The ripping away of my blindfold revealed I was right. There before me sat a large man, smoking and smiling, with sparkling eyes, pot-glazed and lascivious.

  It had to be the notorious brother-in-law. We meet at last.

  Now it was clear. Sir, momentarily thrown by the magic’s retreat, was regaining rapidly. I knew I’d have to behave better or suffer the consequences... what consequences? I didn’t know. I only sensed there would be.

  Sir stood over me as, with amusement in my eyes I sized up the man sitting across from us on a bar stool in this basement rec room. Hunching his broad shoulders, the large man sprouted a toothy grin and amazingly tossed a little awkward wave—from his safe distance. Silly… a wave?

  Sir wasn’t having any of it.

  Sir’s attitude was definitely not silly. “You let him do whatever he wants? Just as if it was me...?!” He growled. But the hint of uncertainty lingering in his voice didn’t escape The Imposter’s merciless ears. Even this tiny weakness in him annoyed her. It made her want to play with him. Though I knew the opportunity would be short-lived, The Imposter, ever the scorpion still called the shots for us. She was demurely silent.

  Catching the avoidance, Sir suddenly knelt in front of me, spread my legs, and opened and exposed me, both to show the ‘brother-in-law’ (and me) that he could, and to demonstrate to the timid man there was nothing to fear.

  Sir handed me a sex toy and commanded me to use it on myself.

  Still not ready to totally relinquish her ephemeral dominion over him, The Imposter enjoyed one last rush as she deliberately avoided this direct order, taking her time instead to experience the singular pleasure of Sir’s tongue and mouth on us, in us, over us. “Mmmmmm,” we moaned, closing our eyes with a satisfied smile.

  With the mounting sensuality of this ultimate kiss, I felt Sir’s full power returning. The Imposter could toy no more. Gladly, I tucked The Cutesy Little Bitch Imposter away, and complied with his former order now, inserting, though with some difficulty the large, artificial male organ, working it deeper and deeper into my cunt. It was dizzying to meld the rush of sensations: Sir’s mouth on me, his hands against my thighs, the torturing ecstasy of the self-inflicted forcing of my depths, my cunt getting wetter and wetter with his saliva and my juices. My heart was pounding. I so easily slipped into Sir’s plane now: a wondrous, velvet-black expanse of time whirling, sparkling, crackling, and tingling with magic. The room and everything in it spiraled into a buzzing glow. Now I did not care if the man who watched us from his safe distance ever came near me or never touched me; whether he feared me, or ravaged my body to pieces. Sir and what he wanted was all I knew.

  At some point the man—who had been introduced to me as ‘Johnny’—hesitantly joined me on the couch. I’m sure Sir had coaxed him. He sat on my right and Sir raised himself to confine me on my left. Sir’s body and hands felt so good. My head was still spinning from the cunnilingus. The vibrations emanating from Sir were incapacitating. I was weak. Thousands of tiny, silver cords bound my mind, body, and soul to him, stronger with every passing second.

  Johnny tentatively touched me as he inched closer. It was odd—not unpleasant—but a distraction from Sir. A flash of guilt rippled through me. I must not enjoy this man’s touch. I must tolerate it because Sir had ordered it, but not revel in it. Johnny’s large, warm hands did feel comforting. The sensation that I was now free through Sir to experience was interesting. It was curious to note that Johnny’s touch was merely an extension of Sir’s, and if I closed my eyes I discovered that Sir now had the ability to fondle me in multiple places at once. I was suddenly grateful to Sir for allowing me this privilege, for opening the door to this polymorphic pleasure.

  Johnny began to slowly relax and let himself enjoy his speculative stroking. His enjoyment didn’t particularly concern me. I allowed it. I enjoyed it through Sir, but until this moment that was all he had instructed: ‘let him do what he wants’.

  With surprising gentleness for such a big, powerful man, Johnny let his hand slide delicately over my breast. He mumbled an indecipherable comment. Sir responded and then lifted and placed my right, black-stockinged leg over Johnny’s knee—a present. Johnny lightly caressed the porcelain appendage as if afraid he’d shatter it, and gave an animal grunt. He again slid his hand to my breast.

  “Nice tits,” he piped throatily to Sir, ignoring me—merely an object—completely. I was a Ming vase; it mattered neither what I thought nor what I felt; I was a vase. A very precious and regal vase, but just a vase nonetheless.

  It was so exciting, so stimulating, being this owned commodity. I loved every second of it. Pure honor was being bestowed upon Sir with every lewd, delicious comment about me made over top of my head—all in total disregard for me. That concept literally set me on fire. This whole atmosphere was seducing me like a drug. My clit tingled and throbbed and my nipples ached to be nibbled, kissed, squeezed. It was so bizarrely wrong it was scrumptious.

  “Can we take this off?” I heard Johnny thickly murmur to Sir, tugging on my black slip. Exactly as it should be, asking one’s Owner for permission.

  “Take it off,” Sir directed me, coarsely. I was his slave. His sex slave. It was wonderful. Perfect. At last.

  My cunt throbbed and spasmed with sizzling, whoredom lust.

  I stood without being told, and took a few steps away from the two men. I smiled coquettishly, letting one strap slide provocatively off my shoulder. A song from ages ago came on the oldies station playing beside us—Little Lies by Fleetwood Mac. The lyrics were apropos: ‘Little lies, tell me sweet little lies... ’ I began to gently swivel my hips, swaying to the music, dancing my strip tease. I shimmied my body another few seconds till I thought I’d pushed my luck far enough. Sir hadn’t sanctioned any dancing. I got down to business and quickly finished the removal. The black, silky slip slid to the floor in a little heap. My bra, garter belt, and stockings were all that remained as I stood there in the spotlight, awaiting direction. With an extended hand, Sir summoned his property.

  I was in heaven. I wanted only to pleasure him, to feel his warm shaft in my mouth, but as he guided me to my knees, Sir instead directed my attention to Johnny.

  Not missing a beat, I complied, understanding completely. I immediately reached for the large man’s waistband, fumbling in my usual klutziness, with Johnny fumbling too, to help. I didn’t question Sir in the slightest. Though the annoyance I felt with servicing this man first was undoubtedly obvious to Sir, he let it pass.

  I freed the heavy man’s cock and began to suck energetically; it was Sir I was sucking after all, simply a projection of him.

  Johnny started to heave and groan like an animal in rut. His guttural sounds were exotically exciting. I was getting so wet I was afraid the juices would run down my thighs. Shameful! What a little whore I was. Sucking another man’s dick right in front of my Owner—and enjoying it.

  Johnny was not as thick as Sir, or as long, but he swelled to an impressive size. It was only moments till I felt the bulging in my mouth. Though it had only been a few minutes, I knew he couldn’t hold back much longer; he was no Sir. He was undulating and trying diligently to control himself, but it wasn’t working. His whole body stiffened. I rode him, unmercifully keeping constant vigil on his hard shaft, my lips sliding up and down relentlessly. I only wanted to please my Owner and get his own warm dick against my tongue as soon as possible. The sooner Johnny shot and filled my mouth, the sooner I could service Sir.

  Right on cue, Johnny did shoot. He growled and grunted his hot cum straight into my mouth like Mount Vesuvius bubbling over. He spurted until his tense body collapsed in a heap. I did not have permission to swallow Johnny, so I glanced around subtly for something on which to dep
osit his cum. His shirttail was the only logical candidate, so I lifted the corner and let the liquid cum spill.

  I stole a look at Sir. He was OK with it. He was suppressing a tiny grin. Johnny chuckled and let out a relieved breath, “Looks like as good a place as any,” he bubbled.

  Now it was my pleasure to service Sir. I turned to him, still on my knees, the remnants of Johnny’s sticky cum in my mouth.

  Before I could descend on him, Sir put his hand under my chin and raised my face to him. I averted my eyes. I couldn’t look at him, didn’t he realize? It was to protect him that I couldn’t. My eyes were said to melt men.

  “Look at me,” he impatiently ordered. Still I resisted. I struggled to free myself. Possibly just wanting to check to see if I was OK with the circumstances, he didn’t press the issue. He had nothing to fear. I was more than OK. I was ecstatic! I was with double Sir, after all. What could be wrong?

  Finally he let go his hold.

  With that I fell onto his hot cock and gratefully enveloped it in my mouth. Instantly he began to grow. My movements on him would continue as long as Sir wanted. Hours even. Though I could feel him stiffen and relent, peak and back down, Sir was not yet ready to allow his sacred cum to honor my mouth.

  At last Sir leaned over, raised my hips, and pulled my knee up on the couch beside him, allowing him access to my cunt. I didn’t miss a beat. I continued to suck him. He reached between my legs and began to manipulate and probe, deeply, maddeningly erotically. His fingers worked into the parted, wet folds and massaged while I writhed with pleasure, still sucking him. I moaned my guttural pleasure.

  “I want you to cum,” Sir encouraged in his deep, husky voice.

  I filled my mouth with him in answer. All the way to the back of my throat. As far as I could take it.

  I was vaguely aware of Sir passing something over my back to Johnny. “Use…” I couldn’t hear what Sir was saying to the man, who was positioning himself behind me on the floor, “…and work it hard.”

  Then I knew. I felt the smooth, artificial phallus being rubbed against my wet cunt provocatively for several teasing minutes. Was he trying to drive me crazy? ‘Cuz it was working. Impatiently I reached to insert it. It took most of my strength to accomplish the task. Then Johnny took over. This large, powerful man, who could’ve probably split me in two, instead chose to slide the firm object into me so gently it was cruel. I could not stand the anticipation of the next stroke, maddeningly slow, agonizingly gentle in being delivered. I hesitated, not wanting to presume to control, but then said to hell with it. I hoped that Sir would understand. I communicated my request to Sir. He didn’t mind, in fact he seemed to relish telling Johnny.

  “Work it harder,” Sir growled.

  “Whaa..?” Johnny stammered in disbelief.

  Sir stated emphatically, “Work it harder.”

  The man only slightly increased his force, still way too timid. How frustrating! I shoved back against the next thrust, and the dildo plunged so deep that I gasped. Yes, that’s it! That’s what I wanted! Pay attention! At last he started moving with me. We were in sync. But in the waves of mounting pleasure I was losing my concentration on Sir. I needed to focus on pleasing him. I tried to redouble on Sir’s dick, but it was becoming difficult between the dildo’s ramming and my furious panting, not to mention that Sir’s hand on my clit was driving me absolutely bat-shit insane.

  The fabric of the couch rubbing my nipples drove me wild. Ears buzzing, with every stroke of that wet, hard dildo shoving in from behind, nothing but the sound of my gasps got through.

  It was exquisite! Sir was coaxing me to cum, cooing, cajoling; I could feel him swelling in my mouth as I sucked; the throbbing in my head and cunt matched tempo and I wanted so badly to have him spill in me the way the other man had! Only with Sir I would swallow. I would not look for somewhere to expel the cum. I wanted to be honored by it deep inside so badly. I prayed for him to cum, I longed for it...

  ... but instead I climaxed. I couldn’t hold back. I tried to wait; lord knows I didn’t want to cum before Sir, but it was way too late. I was exploding!

  My cunt convulsed as I fell backward on the floor. The dildo lost its mark. It was just as well—there was no way I could cum and hold for that artificial fucking at the same time. I dropped and curled up, my hand shooting to the spot throbbing between my thighs. I was cumming again, or maybe I was continuing to cum, or maybe perpetual cum rockets were just shooting off in my brain, but whatever, it felt so damn good I was in oblivion. Nothing else mattered. I closed my eyes against the horrible thoughts Sir must be thinking of me at this moment. Such defiance! All I could do was quiver with the lightning bolts blasting through my body. I was truly a wanton whore. If ever there was doubt of that fact, this clarified it. Now, as I lie on the floor fingering myself, writhing and moaning with abandon, both men could clearly see what I was.

  But instead of chastisement, to my utter joy Sir’s scooped me up in his powerful arms, enfolding me like a child.

  That moment was utterly transcendental. Every pinnacle was reached. Again on my knees before Sir I eagerly plunged my mouth on his erect penis with renewed fervor. It didn’t take long this time. He came in my mouth like a geyser of fine champagne, and I drank every drop. I gulped it, till together we were sailing on a plane of indescribable sensation. Floating, soaring; the wind rushing in my ears. Trembling, I milked every drop of cum from his throbbing cock onto my waiting tongue.

  I pressed my knees together, to stop the third surge of pleasure that was building, but Sir pushed them apart again, and the helplessness of the exposure to the world was too great to survive. I came again.

  My head swam for a few staggering seconds. Reality lost, it was Sir who brought me back to earth. I gasped when he turned me around and crushed me in his warm, thick arms. Tenderly, Sir took my face in his hands, impaling me on his jade green eyes. I tried to shake him off again, wanting only to be submissive and fearing the brazen shamelessness he would see in me But I couldn’t twist free this time, so instead I simply lowered my gaze.

  Sir pulled my chin higher and reactively I put my hands on his. Irritated, he gave my head a tiny jerk.

  “Look at me!” He hissed through gritted teeth.

  I couldn’t. He was just too awesome. I was just too depraved. How could I let him see!? I whined and wiggled instead.

  Sir’s jaw tightened in anger. I should not be disobeying him like this, and in front of another man? I was his possession, to do with as he chose; yet I couldn’t help myself—his eyes so near to mine were burning me alive.

  My head was in a vice grip; I was as high on my tiptoes as I could get, and Sir was not going to relent; I had no choice but to obey. I darted a quick glance, but Sir’s piercing stare hurt so badly I had to close my eyes. I wiggled again. Somehow I wrenched free and buried my face in his shoulder. For some reason, I got away with it—at least for a second.

  Sir pulled my head back again, glowering down at me. He was demanding that I look at him straight on to seal his dominance.

  “I can’t!” I repeated, “I can’t!”

  “You will!” He demanded. There was much more in that statement than met the ear.

  I certainly would.

  I was standing and re-buttoning my coat. We were leaving. Sir circled around directly in front of me and produced a dark blue bandanna from thin air. It was the same scarf with which he’d blindfolded me on our arrival. He looped it casually around my neck and knotted it snugly once, twice. He smiled his little half smile and tugged it into place. The scarf had become my collar; like O’s collar. I was O and happy to be her. It pleased me so. Sir pleased me so.

  We ascended the stairs, climbed into our white, black-striped chariot, and sailed away into the night. But the magic wasn’t quite over yet.

  We were back in the city, and even after this incredible night Sir still managed to blow me away.

  After parking the Camaro in the dark vacant lot by my car, he silently reache
d into the back seat and pulled out several absolutely fabulous pieces of artwork, his precious artwork from our Institute days. He deposited them into my lap without a word. One in particular, Fallen was so beautiful it almost made me cry just to look at it. (I still have it. I’m looking at it hanging on my wall right now.)

  “You seemed to admire it,” was all he quietly said.

  That he was giving it to me did make me cry. I did not want him see my brimming eyes—so typically female—so I squeezed back the tears of joy.

  This night, never to be forgotten was just one of a thousand such nights in our incredible, erotic journey. So sensual, so lurid are they that they challenge retelling. An accounting in print of our myriad sexual encounters—one encounter more hedonistic than the next—would require a memoir of ten-thousand pages. But I’m game if you are. …

  It will be quite a heavy coffee table book.

  11—Clean White Rope

  “Little Sister, the time has come for me to ride hard and fast.”

  I walked around in an absolute daze, unsure if the events etched in my memory had actually occurred. I searched for signs of proof. Reassuringly—like a Monet hanging on my wall, and now to be a focal point in my daily meditation—Sir’s Fallen was there. It was so beautiful, so awe-inspiring, an incongruent masterpiece of simplicity and intensity. Ancient monoliths arranged in a circle, stark and bold stood in thunderous silence on the vast field of blackened phthlalo green. Its colors ranged from the setting sun’s brilliant orange, to the blue/indigo/black blending of the expanse of the nighttime sky. Stars, so many pinpoints of light dotted the painting’s upper two-thirds.

  Majestically, mystically, but never humbly, the picture’s black, backlit giant stones rose from the hallowed ground beneath them. Their intricate forms—screaming of their magnificent and sacrosanct powers to those who could listen—compelled the eye to trace and retrace, and then retrace them again.

  I was drawn into the piece in school; now I was in total awe of the lending of the gift. Yes, lending. Sir gave me the cherished painting, but I am an artist; I know the gut wrenching that occurs when these special parts of yourself are gone. They may leave your hands, but they never leave your possession. So, I considered the picture to be lent. I conveyed this to Sir the next day after he gave it to me—the day after that magic carpet ride with the other man—in case he ever wanted it back. To be ready, I took visual pictures of Sir’s Fallen daily, etching every graceful curve, every tint, every shade and hue, every dotted soul in that soft, velvet sky deep into my subconscious. I absorbed the piece into my being; I made it a part of me. Now, no matter if he recalled the medium, no one could recall the memory.