Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  Perfect! It was perfect; just how I’d wanted it to be.

  I felt the last of Sir’s lava cum filling me, squirting deep inside my battered ass. I heard him groan his last spasm. He took his time and let the cum shoot straight up me, over and over as deeply as it possibly could. That hot wet liquid slammed hard.

  Sir hovered there with his dick convulsing inside me like a wasp’s stinger, pumping every last drop of elixir deep inside. All I could do was hold, but all I wanted to do was hold.

  Little pleasure spasms quivered my insides and my cunt and ass were on fire.

  He withdrew and sat back. I remained in that position like a heaving statue and waited for his command.

  Finally he released me. First my ankles—one by one—as he heaved like a prizefighter after a bout. We were both panting so hard we were shaking. My clit was still pulsating, the concept of our hot fuck session buzzing my brain. Next he unfastened my wrists, but with effort. Finished at last, he shuddered a breath and fell back onto the sleeping bag, patting the space beside him.

  “Lay down.” It was a command of different a different sort now.

  I did. So gladly. I stretched out full length beside him, melting into his arms, accepting his cuddling, his loving caress.

  This man held me like I have never been held before; like I never wanted anyone but him to hold me again. I was part of his body. We were as close as we could possibly be lying beside each other on that blanket on that wooden floor in that empty, candle-lit room. He caressed me, he stroked me. He nuzzled my neck and hair. His strong arms were silver cords binding me to him; his neck and shoulders, bronze and steel cables, unbreakable in their entwining. The vibrations exuding from him amalgamated our souls and forged a bond more incredible, more indelible than anything I’ve ever experienced.

  Master and slave. Owner and property. No longer merely O... I was now ‘M’, [the initial of the nickname he had given me years before. He knows, I know, but it is a secret I shall never reveal].

  This love came from far out in the universe. It felt ancient, correct. It felt ‘One’. Pure. Complete. Forever. Forever and ever, and ever, world without end. Amen.

  I was in ecstasy, and now I knew. I knew…

  ... Sir loved me.

  14—Brother Dearest

  A man shouldn’t butt into anything that ain’t his own affair.”

  The room was dark, completely black, though it was a bright, one o’clock in the afternoon. All outside light was blocked by thick drapes over drawn shades. Not even a trickle of sunlight made it through.

  I lay in bed teetering on the edge of sleep, trying to endure until Sir called again. We’d had so much trouble connecting this last week—as the aggravating answering machine could attest—I was not moving from this spot until his voice was live again.

  The jangle jarred me from my nether world. At last! I grabbed the phone on the second ring.

  “Hello,” I breathed, hoping.

  “Hello,darling,” came the dramatic reply.

  Of course it was Sir. It was him!

  “Sir. Oh my god,” I murmured reverently, “…my god.” My heart was pounding wildly. “What in the world have you been doing?” The question was rhetorical; I didn’t care what he’d had to do, only that he was safe and on the other end of that line.

  “Working my ass off, night and day!” he piped.

  It was so good to hear from him. Nobody could imagine how good. In the private darkness I listened happily to his abbreviated recounting of his day, but my head exploded when he got to the plans. The magic he was brewing! Such anticipation of the night; tonight, Friday night. No restrictions on time, apart from work tomorrow for him the world was wide. I couldn’t wait. I just couldn’t wait.

  I was in heaven once again.

  I counted the minutes until I could begin getting ready for my Master. At five-thirty I began.

  The rituals I performed for him had become ingrained. They prepared more than just my body. They prepared my mind. I came to Sir as pure and as clean as was humanly possible inside and out. I had ceased long ago wearing any kind of product or perfume, the necessity of which had suddenly dawned on thick me. I was now even cautious about any telltale, perfumed soap, or lotion.

  I was halted in my rites by another phone call. It was Sir. Something of major proportions was wrong. I could sense it before he even spoke.

  “It ain’t good,” he heaved.

  Sir’s brother, who had been a thorn in Sir’s side for a few weeks now, had pulled a major nasty. First the brother had been attempting to steal the House away from my Sir. Yes, Sir’s father had given Sir the House, technically, but it wasn’t recorded on paper yet, and the older gentleman, it seemed, was a bit too easily swayed by Brother Dearest’s siren call of cash money if only he could take over and sell it. So Brother-fucking-Dearest–totally unsolicited—had brought ‘buyers’ to look at it—the profit from the sale of which he would, naturally, have tucked neatly into his own little wallet, despite Sir’s major out-of-pocket expenses and time spent improving it. Sweet Brother Dearest would have happily sold the House right out from under him.

  No, Brother Dearest was not a plus in anything, but even more, he was starting to meddle in other angles of our world. The nosy little fuck had even filched a note that I’d had placed on the door of the Houses strictly for Sir. Good thing it was cryptic. Grrrr.

  But now Brother Fucking Dearest had gone too far. In one of his biggest meddles of all time, the clod had tried to sic the FBI on us. Yes, the fucking F. B. I.!

  A little girl in the tristate, age seven, had been missing for a week. People were getting nutty, understandably so, and were following up any and all leads, but now it was becoming a witch-hunt. The plates on my car matched the state just across the line, from which she was missing. You can see where this is headed, right?

  Yes, indeed, Brother Dearest had just happened to drive by—meddling again—and saw my car parked in front of the House on the road by the top of the driveway, tucked into the little pull-off that Sir had carved out of the thicket just for me. BD had evidently driven by the very last time Sir and I were there together. Dutiful BD had called the police and they were—quote—‘mounting a massive search’ of the wooded area right there. That was Wednesday. Today was Friday.

  Sir was totally dismayed, and I was in complete agreement with any remedy he proposed.

  “But I was there last night, Thursday night,” I stammered. “I sat in front of the House three hours and nobody did anything.”

  I thought back to the evening, then continued. “... Except” I began slowly, “that three punk teenagers... ran out of gas... in an old, beat-up car… almost right across from your driveway…” my voice trailed off at my last statement, “… not twenty-five feet behind me...”. Things were becoming clearer.

  “Two of them sat there in the car the whole time,” I reflected. Funny thing was, just about three minutes after their car ‘ran out of gas’ another car, someone that they evidently knew, miraculously came along, and the oldest and foulest-mouthed of them drove off with the person. Hmmm. Convenient. The two others stayed in the car, though it was parked in a dangerous spot on that curve like that.

  “I don’t think they, or anybody else could see me in the car,” I offered weakly. Yeah, it sounded as thin to me as it probably did to him.

  It gave me an uneasy feeling. That seemed like just the type of thing that undercover cops or the fucking F.B.I. would brew up to corner a vile kidnapper. Wow. I thought of how they had climbed out, cursed, and spat at the car and each other for a few minutes, an added smattering of realism? I also thought what a waste of time all that was for them, if that was what they were actually doing—tracking me. What a loss of precious time and effort from the actual finding of that lost little girl, if so.

  Sir was vehemently bitching about his nosy, meddling, trouble-making brother, and wracking his brain for alternatives. Sir’s mind, though he would be the last to believe it, operated j
ust like a computer. I can remember when, in our Institute of Art days we were all called up to the instructor’s desk for project information, everyone would bring his tablet to jot down dimensions, materials lists—sometimes lengthy special data—times, dates, figures, and deadlines. All of us, that is, but Sir. Sir brought nothing. Instead the military man stood quietly, shyly at the rear of the group, hands behind his back in an 'at ease' position, listening—just listening—eyes wide with that innocent look, staring straight ahead like an automaton, absorbing everything like a sponge. Then he would simply turn and go—and get his project perfect.

  All the rest of us, with our piles of notes and questions and our helter-skelter skitter would proceed to screw things up royally, especially me. But not Sir. He was remarkable.

  We’d each make trip after trip back up to the instructor, would mix wrong, cut wrong, blend, measure or buy wrong. But not Sir. Never Sir. He had everything recorded in his mind; etched in stone on some indelible mental note pad. He always had all the calculations correct; had them computed and carried out before the rest of us even had them written down. If there were any way to do it more efficiently, Sir would discover it. Like he did on one of our first, most difficult projects:

  We had been given an assignment to ink five different, circular patterns, each intricate and precise, on a fairly large board. No room for mistakes. Ink it right or start completely over from scratch with a brand new board. Period.

  One pattern called for a repeated ‘s’ curve surrounding one of the circles—a harrowing, nerve-shattering number of times, like a sunburst with a hundred spiral rays. Each ray had to be painstakingly calculated, French-curved, traced and inked precisely. No glitches, no stop/start marks, and no blobs. And of course, no possibility of corrections. Everyone’s brows were furrowed; rulers and T-squares were flying furiously to beat the deadline.

  Sir walked by my desk, nonchalantly dropped something on my board with a quiet plop, and kept on walking without skipping a beat. I glanced at it. It was one of the green, plastic templates we used for standard shapes—ovals and circles. He didn’t stop.

  I shot a look up at him and caught an almost imperceptible glint in his eye as he passed, and that shy, private grin of his. I quickly checked out the secret deposit: there in the corner on a little blank space he had carved out his own template of the intricate, difficult pattern into the plastic sheet. Wow, how easy he had just made my monstrous task!

  He hadn’t said one word, just barely glanced at me in his knowing way.

  It was mind-blowing, the simple genius of it. He had eliminated literally hours of hard, likely inaccurate work, and created a no-fail method of exacting the finished piece. I was so impressed that I beamed my wide smile of approval and gratitude back at him, and, shaking my head in awe, immediately proceeded to carve out my own. That was Sir. The Commando. Mind like an innocent, sweet, deadly steel trap.

  Now that mind, I had every confidence, would figure out the exact details of how we should proceed, I had no doubt. Though he hesitated, was frustrated and pulled off track by his vexation of a brother, I had no qualms about the direction the night would take. My biggest fear was not so much that I would be implicated or hassled over the little girl; that part was easy. I would be exonerated in a blink of an eye should they question me. But license plate information could already have blown us to Sir’s ‘others’. A fate I’d rather endure thumbscrews than have Sir suffer.

  “We’re on hold,” he sighed. “I’ll call you back.”

  I thought of several aces in the hole for us. Number one; there was the fact that I had not been hassled by the undercover (?) punks that night and, if I had been watched, I at least was not acting suspiciously in my car. Well, for the most part I wasn’t. I did read my letters to Sir quietly out loud as I sat reclined far down in the seat, thinking about him and the room so close, and I jacked off. There in the front seat of the car, in the thick darkness and willowy shadows, gazing through dilated eyes at the blackened windows of our Dream Room I came like a motherfucker. Nobody was around, though; not even the faux cops.

  That was the last thing I did before leaving, and the undercover punks had gone long before, so everything felt normal.

  Two; the car that I drove wasn’t registered to me; it was registered to a relative. Even that registration was for a former address so long ago that the ordinary person could not trace it without heroic efforts, let alone to me, to us.

  Three, the storm.

  The storms that we had been having in the tristate in the past several days had been extremely violent. We were predicted to have even worse ones tonight. I doubted, if there was going to be a ‘massive search’ conducted at some elusive time, it probably wouldn’t be tonight in the middle of a tornado.

  Sir called back. “We’re on!” He piped brimming with confidence and determination. I loved it.

  Magic all the way. Magic, magic, magic.

  I finished getting ready much too early. I drove in the twilight—my favorite time of day—into the large tangerine ball of the setting sun. No appreciable signs of a storm were visible yet, except that the sky was hazy, and wispy clouds hung here and there against a silvery backdrop. There was a slight purpling streak across the horizon, the only clue that something was coming, and it was far to the north. It was the only promise—or threat depending upon your appreciation—of rain.

  I applied my scant makeup, outlining my lips lightly to emphasize their shape with a lipstick of fire-red, the color that Sir liked, and blended it in. My eyes I penciled ever so faintly at the corners, and curled the lashes as long as possible with heavy mascara. Eyes have always been most important to me; they truly are ‘the mirror of one’s soul’. Then the blush, which I applied not only to the high cheek bones with an upward sweep into the hairline, but to my eyelids as well with this same sweep to the temples. That gave the area around my eyes a blushed, sensual, full-blown look that also makes green eyes appear clearer and more vivid. Occasionally a spot of deeper red or a bit of brown shading at the outer corners of the eye to blend upward completed the picture; IF Sir had asked me to wear makeup, that is. I preferred not to look artificial unless the part called for it. My wearing lipstick at all was strictly at his bidding. Usually I am disguised for all the world like the girl next door. It gets me further.

  I reached for my perfume out of old habit, and then remembered: perfume’s a great big no-no. I settled for the bland, nearly imperceptibly scented lotion instead. I was hoping that my shampoo didn’t constitute too lingering a fragrance. Nothing telltale. Even the length of my thick, long black locks could be a problem if a few strands were left behind in the wrong spot.

  All must be considered with Sir’s ‘others’.

  The night was rising slowly with the teeter-totter of the setting sun grappling with the accumulating clouds. The drive was nearly complete. I was to meet him at the lot of a large corner store, about a fourth of a mile from the House. I was to wait there for his tall, black Mercedes. The only problem was I was a full hour and a half early. So I pulled, instead, into the beautiful, wooded national forest just a mile or two away to wait, and to put on my skirt and heels. I didn’t drive far into the woods, just a hundred yards or so off the highway, parking at the nearest pull-off.

  The sky was darkening rapidly now, blustering one last hurrah of fiery-red brilliance with the sun’s gloaming. I caught the flash of lightning on the distant horizon, the protracted crack resounding as I sat removing my jeans. The long, white-hot bolts in the distance crept ever closer. Streaking flashes lit up the entire horizon, but the rumbling thunder and the swaying trees still hesitated. There was still time.

  It gave an ominous undercurrent to the night. Usually storms frighten me; sometimes they absolutely terrify me, having survived a couple of tornadoes. Tonight I was sailing on an adrenalin rush and nothing could go wrong.

  As if to emphasize this fact, a man in a box-y, yellow, extremely dated car pulled about twenty-five feet from me and
parked. Ugh. I willed him to go away. I could see out of the corner of my eye, silhouetted in the occasional headlights of cars passing on the highway that the car held a lone man. I ignored him and continued to busy myself with arranging my car, deciding which belt to cinch around my waist, and with wrapping up the sleeping bag that Sir had asked me to bring.

  Finally the ‘lone stranger’ pulled away. Good. Now I could finish fastening my garter belt, a task which necessitated sliding my black, tight skirt all the way above my hips. Something for which you do need a little space and privacy unless you want to get arrested, molested—or both—on the spot.

  Now finished—skirt down—I began to brush my thick, dark hair in the mirror. I had just started to adjust my stockings and, damn! He was back. The little man in the shitty, yellow car. This time he wasted no time in stepping out of his car and rounding the back of mine.

  Keep walking... keeeep walking, asshole!

  Ah, but no such luck.

  Tap, tap, tap, he rapped lightly on my window.

  I rolled it down just a crack.

  “Excuse me,” he tried to angle his mouth to fit the window’s gap. “Do you have the time?” Oh, no he dint just ask me that dumb question. Gimme a break.

  I paused for effect, gathering my iciest stare before slowly turning to face a short, middle-aged, thirty-pounds-overweight, BLATANTLY obviously toupee-ed man, sporting several ridiculously fake gold chains which glared garishly from beneath a comically-open-topped-meant-to-be-macho plaid shirt, (yes, plaid!) capped off with a super corny vest. This completed the portrait of a reject from a singles bar from hell. It was truly disgusting and I would have laughed out loud if I weren’t on a mission from god.

  “Yeah!” I stopped myself midway of actually looking at my watch. “Time for you to hit the road,” I said with all the butch toughness I could muster, gesturing hard with my thumb. “I’m waiting for someone!”