I had already been so stupidly cowardly; I was going to TRY not wimp out again. I squeezed both my eyes and mouth shut tight.
It was a rattling jolt ride to the top of the hill, but nowhere nearly as scary as the way down. I simply kept my eyes closed, gripped the dash, and before I knew it we had plowed through the brush wall and were at the top of the hill, shooting like a rocket into the black sky. We had made it. No cars. No crashes, save my crashing and burning in the driveway a few minutes ago.
That I couldn’t shake. I was overjoyed we’d survived and happy to have serviced Sir to climax, but now I was humiliated.
We started down the road and Sir broke the edgy silence.
“I might be a bit of a sadist, but I’m not a rapist,” Sir stated, leaning toward me to propel the words, ala John Wayne.
The statement slapped my face. See , this is exactly what I didn’t want. You can’t rape a submissive.
“Please,” I begged sincerely, “whatever you do, do not apologize!”
Worst of all, an apology now would destroy me and us. Whatever Sir did to me, as long as he wanted to do it, as long as it was for his pleasure, no apology was ever needed. I would literally eat him alive if he did that. Make no mistake: Do what you want to me, but goddammit enjoy it and don’t ever let me hear say you’re sorry. Don’t ever.
Please, don’t ever!
13—The Upper Room
“Now you take it any way you want.”
The phone rang. I grabbed it in a heartbeat. “Hello,” I quivered with anticipation. My heart skipped a beat at Sir’s calling card, that pregnant pause.
“Hello,” the quiet voice echoed.
“Sir, Sir, Sir,” I grabbed for him through the line, breathing his name to cement the reality.
He paused again.
“What’re you doing?” he murmured his usual greeting.
“Thinking of you. Sitting. Writing,” I breathed.
Yes, that was the truth, I had been constantly thinking of Sir, sitting, writing... meditating, tripping, freaking, and thinking of Sir all morning long. Writing was the only thing—writing and breathing in Sir’s scent on my new bandanna—that kept me sane, if this was sanity.
“I can’t talk,” he stated. “I want to see you tonight, all right?”
“OK,” I answered immediately. All right? It was more than all right, it was heaven.
“I’ll call you later,” he promised, then added pensively, “With instructions.”
“Instructions? Whoa,” I repeated, more to myself than to Sir. The word captivated me. ‘Instructions’.
I knew he had to go.
I sat in ecstatic silence for a moment. Last Saturday night—who was that entity I was with last Saturday night? It had to be Sir’s alter ego, it surely wasn’t Sir. They certainly did a number on him, those ‘others’. Those ‘others’ that I had never met, never wanted to meet, and tried never, ever to think about. If anyone had less to fear from someone concerning his ‘others’ it was Sir from me. I shuddered to breathe life into the specters that were his collective, unmentionable ‘others’. Names were never used. Vague terms spawned by Sir whenever their reference was absolutely necessary served to cloak them in anonymity and keep them at bay across their wide, dark chasm; exactly where they belonged. (Shiver.) I was not allowed to address him by his real name, and he never used mine. Cloak and dagger all the way. So smart was he.
Among the ‘instructions’ Sir called back to give me was a directive to come to him ‘naked’—completely naked —between my legs. Sensuously I painted on the hot wax and removed every bit of fluff from fore to aft. The stinging pain, as well as the concept, was delicious.
I met Sir dressed all in black, as my Sir, the Magic Sir, had told me he liked. I hoped that the magic was back. As I drove toward the place I was to meet him, I thought about today’s vibrations—as opposed to the ones I had felt from Sir last Saturday—incredible.
A letter he had sent me, ‘a love letter’ in Sir’s exact words, had propelled me to a high from which I’ll never come down. An accompanying piece of art—‘inspired by you’, he wrote—had completely blown me away. The edges of the image were faded to a solid blackness that reminded me of the blackness of that soft, velvet sky in which I’d always dreamt of drifting in a silvery bubble with Sir.
My brain exploded when I read the letter, and the intoxicating smell of the Krylon he’d sprayed on to archive the drawing sucked me straight back to art school. We’d spend so many hours fixing our drawings with it then, it was hard not to get buzzed on the fumes. That heady scent now made me wild as it brought it all back.
So tonight we would dance; but would I dance with sir or Magic Sir?
He was waiting this time in the designated restaurant parking lot. There he was in the truck—that truck—the old, high, set-up, tomb-on-wheels that had sealed in us the week before. I slowed to a crawl, scouting out a parking space when wraith-like, Sir’s beaming face suddenly appeared at my window before I could even shift into park. Man, he was fast.
“We’re going to move,” he said, stooping to peer through my now rolled down window as I struggled to bridle my runaway heart. “I’m going to park you closer in case we get stuck.”
“OK,” I purred, melting into his eyes, none of what he was saying really sinking in.
To seal the deal, he leaned through the window and kissed me, slipping his right arm around my shoulder and sliding his left hand up my thigh to see if I had followed his instructions. I had. To a ‘T’. He heaved a shuddered sigh of approval as his steely eyes bore deep into mine.
I went limp, beaming with happiness.
“Follow me,” he smiled back, adding heavily, “I can’t wait.”
We left the restaurant parking lot and drove with me following Sir’s big growling truck. Three minutes later, on a residential street, Sir flashed his turn signal and pulled to the side. I did the same. Guessing he wanted to take only his car the rest of the way (gulp), I gathered my little bag containing my jeans and shoes and hurried up beside him.
Once I was settled in, Sir started the engine again. We had driven a quick block when he looked my way; his face was literally aglow. His breathing, shallow and fast, and his eyes on fire told me something was definitely up. I raised my eyebrows quizzically.
He couldn’t contain his joy one more minute. He let me have it.
“My Dad called me yesterday….” he left the sentence dangling, Sir-style, beaming at me with a satisfied grin.
“He did?” I encouraged. Sir was illuminated. I had guessed that we were heading to the same spot as last Saturday, so that couldn’t be the surprise. Yet Sir was practically blinding me with his radiance. Until now I just figured that he had got a working key to the empty house which his father owned. Then it struck me, almost at the same moment that Sir told me. ESP?
“He gave me the house!” Sir was ecstatic. He was almost bursting at the seams.
I was astounded. “He GAVE you the house?!!?” I burbled. “Oh, Sir! Fantastic! Fantastic!” I could not have been more pleased.
Now we were pausing across from the top of the ungodly steep, had-to-be-eighty-five-degree-angled driveway.
“I can’t believe it,” I chirruped again as I gulped, closing my eyes and bracing for the decent. A few seconds later and we had stopped in one piece. I released my breath. That was definitely easier with a dose of happy.
Sir owns this house! I mused, somehow more thrilled than just surprised. I had hoped for some special magic for us, but things had progressed much faster than even I had dreamed. This was incredible.
I sat in momentary silence and stared up in awe at the stark reality before me. It was almost more than I could grasp. His own Roissy at last?
I slipped from the truck’s high seat to catch up with Sir who had already started striding up the hillside. We navigated our way through the tall, unmown and dewy grass, and over the slippery rock steps. Once on the porch, Sir produced a silver skeleton key—the kind
you see in old movies—and unlocked the front door.
Everything was like an old movie as a matter of fact: the perfect backdrop: a shadowy covered porch dappled in the eerie green glow of a sickly street light dancing through the trees; a light breeze blowing the heady scent of honeysuckle all around; drips of sparkling condensate hanging like ripe crystal plums from the lilacs ready to christen our heads—all Hollywood ambiance. Only this was real.
I turned just before stepping into the House, to grip the brick railing in silent homage to the unseen magic. We had our Roissy at last. If ever there was a place more private, more mysterious, more befitting a French chateau—yet so incongruously close to the city—it was this house.
I tiptoed gently into the emptiness, hesitant to disrupt the fragile glamor. Hollow echoes, ancient wood scents, and long-undisturbed dust motes bombarded my senses the second I stepped in. How I tingled with excitement! As Sir worked with the uncooperative front door lock, I crossed the floor to glance out the back window at the veil of woods that surrounded us down in this little valley. Pinpoints of light from far up on the main road came winking and flickering their lazy dance across the kitchen floor. I shivered. Everything served to intensify the spine-tingling mystique. It was a wonderland. The House was surrounded by a veritable forest of blossoming dogwoods, maples, and locusts, and literally droves of honeysuckle. Several thousand feet through the woods to the right, twinkling lights of the nearest reminder of civilization—an apartment complex—blinked. We were perched in the middle of two wild and thickly forested acres, practically in the center of town. Whoa, this was unbelievable. What a coup!
I stepped lightly past Sir, who was still preoccupied with the recalcitrant front door, to check out the staircase leading from the kitchen to the second floor. A soft light filtered down from the upper room, alluringly. It cast the upright rails in subtle shadows at our feet. I placed my bag on the floor and removed my heels to better navigate the steps. Sir probably wouldn’t have liked this, but he didn’t notice, still in a fight with that door. One by one, I silently ascended the old wooden steps. At the top, I stopped, and in the dimness my cat’s eyes strained to absorb all available light. Eyes finally adjusting I could see the room was totally empty.
On the far wall, overlooking the driveway, an inviting, built-in window seat curved. With the sharp slope of the hillside, even the first floor was two stories off the ground, the second was a dizzying three.
I wanted to go have a look out that window by the built-in seat, but hesitated, feeling it was a bit too pushy to rummage around Roissy without my Owner beside me. I waited. It was just a minute until I heard the whisper of his footsteps as he, flashlight spotlighting his way, eased up behind me.
“It’s cold in here,” he quietly announced, heading toward the back of the room. “I opened a window earlier.”
I tripped along behind him to peer out the second/third story window. From my vantage point over the tops of the trees I could just make out the huge, old, twin, brick and stone water towers that occupied a half a block up on the main road. They looked like double medieval castles. I didn’t know whether or not they still functioned, but even as just land marks they were impressive.
I heard muffled plops behind me, and glancing over my shoulder I saw that Sir was unrolling his military sleeping bag on the floor. I backed into the corner to be out of his way. Working around me now, he opened one of the two closets that boxed in the window seat, withdrew a package wrapped in a blanket, and laid it on the floor. Then he retrieved a pair of shoes—high, spiked mules with cross straps of black suede leather—and approached me.
“Will those fit?” He asked softly, depositing the shoes at my feet and returning immediately to his room prep.
I slipped them on. Yes, they fit, mostly. But to stand in them was difficult; to walk, impossible. This would take some practice. I was used to spike heels with backs, but these were different. Tricky.
“I don’t think I can walk in them,” I whispered, steadying myself as I surveyed them tipsily.
“You don’t have to walk very far,” Sir shook his head with a slight grin.
He stopped and sized me up as I stood, delicately balancing.
“Lay down,” he pointed to the sprawling sleeping bag. He had shifted gears. I could hear his heart thrumming in his dark voice.
I obeyed. I stretched out languidly and snuggled in, pleased at the comfort. It felt much cushier than the hard wooden floorboards looked.
Sir stood over me, gazing down, eyes suddenly as wild and glassy as if he were beholding a red dawn. He stared mesmerized for a few long minutes unable to turn away, hands on hips, eyes impaled. The only sound was of our breathing and, under Sir’s intense scrutiny, my thundering heartbeat banging in my ears.
Breaking his gaze at last, he crouched, produced a cigarette lighter, and began igniting candles that he had arranged in a circle around us. They were the little votive candles, the kind housed in tiny metal containers. Once they were all glowing, he raised to tower over me again. Standing as still as a statuesque druid of eld, hands again on hips, he surveyed me, eyes fixed, hypnotic. Vacant.
Finally the statue broke posture to sit on his haunches beside me. With a gentle hand on my knee Sir slowly slid my dress all the way up, above my hips. Submitting completely, I languidly draped an arm across my face to let him do whatever he wanted. I closed my eyes to revel in the warmth that was Sir’s hands now, stroking the entire length of my legs as he squeezed, rubbed, and sensuously evaluated with an Artist’s acumen.
With a look of wild innocence, Sir’s gravelly voice belied his facade.
“Touch yourself,” he murmured his demand.
Automatically I obeyed. He had me in a trance. I let my hand slowly find its way down to the bare skin between my legs, and stroked the folds of the pussy that was now naked as a babe’s, just as Sir had instructed. He watched for a moment, completely and utterly riveted.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah.” His eyes were ready to pop.
I was so pleased that he seemed pleased. What could be more right with our world?
I somniferously let my eyes close once more, only minimally aware of Sir’s rising to continue his magic around me. I drifted into a dream. I became aware of his hands on my ankles, squeezing, massaging, but it just felt good...right. Warm and comforting. Nothing more.
All at once I thought I felt something else, but it couldn’t be, could it? Surely I must be wrong. That wasn’t straps I felt being fitted around my ankles, was it? Why, yes; yes it was. I felt the restraints being fastened, tightened, and checked; but it didn’t startle me; I continued floating on my dream. It all seemed far too proper to be worthy of panic.
Of course I didn’t panic, because, as I said, it was so proper; instead it made perfect sense to simply relax and let him do whatever he wanted. I was like a limp noodle, floating in sultry warm cream.
He worked with them—the anklets. Odd, my only concern was what they looked like, my new ankle bracelets. With the care that Sir always took, I knew they would be perfect.
The idea of the straps didn’t upset me because my mind blocked out any logical function for them. Confinement? I mused. If confinement was their intended purpose, to what and how was I to be confined? It was an abstraction that was not yet upon me, so I put it out of my mind. For now I simply lay there, enjoying Sir’s touch—and my own on my wet, juicy pussy. Both of my ankles were now encircled in their snug-fitting straps. For a moment, Sir let the drama build. He was so good at sexual tension.
Then I heard it; with still-closed eyes, I heard the sweet tinkling of bells. This delicate metal on metal clinking was still reverberating in my head when I also heard a low thud drop right beside me. I froze. Shouldn’t I open my eyes about now? Shouldn’t I least be investigating, out of sheer curiosity what was going on right beside me?
... No...
I continued the dream.
Sir had risen now. “Stand up,” he ordered.
For a moment my muscles wouldn’t work. I was trying to evaluate all the input at once and muscles in motion wasn’t one of them. I finally realized what he had said as it filtered through layer after layer of my foggy brain.
I stood, but, eyes fixed on the floor, I was afraid to look around, afraid of what I’d see. My heart picked up dramatically. My breath was coming now in quick little pants, and I was close to hyperventilating. Where’s a paper bag when you need one?
What more awaited me in the candle lit room I just couldn’t make my eyes see.
So, my body was already paralyzed, and now my eyes weren’t working either? This was bedazzling.
Finally with the greatest of effort I hazarded a glance. What I was shocked to see on the floor beneath me was an incredible wooden device. What I was now being ushered to, and what had been made, constructed, invented for me defied explanation. I gazed at the apparatus with trepidation as well as artistic awe. The smooth, dark-grained, polished, thick wooden planks stretched out beneath me like a rack. No, it wasn’t ‘like’ a rack, it WAS a rack. I had only a moment to survey my present, however because Sir was instructing me quietly, hoarsely, firmly to 'Kneel. Kneel on the Boards.'
The Boards. I reasoned in my head. Hmmmm. Interesting…I liked the name.
I’m to do what? I thought in abstraction. Kneel on them? Nothing seemed to be coming through in real time.
I hesitated another second, muscles in a protest. Now things seemed way more logical if carried out in slow motion; more reliable.
… Safer.
Nonsense I told myself; this was Sir, wasn’t it? I was safe with Sir… wasn’t I? Of course I was. Ultimately safe, as always. What had changed? Nothing had changed, except that I now wore ankle restraints and was being instructed to kneel on some very heavy, wooden boards in the middle of this empty, echo-y room.
Well, yeah, there was that.
Muscles finally thawing, I did as I was told. I knelt in silence, but kept my eyes glued to the wall. I didn’t look left or right; I did not look back. I couldn’t look back. If I had, I might not have stayed on my knees and I might have even bolted. Sensibly bolted. But for now it seemed nice just to focus on the wall.
Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir Page 14