Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  “OK,” he piggy squealed meekly, shoulders hunched from the whipping he’d just received. He literally turned heel and ran.

  This was pathetic. It had to be a cop. Nobody in his right mind dressed like that today. He just had to know, dressed like I was—spiked, gold-metal-tipped, black heels, black stockings, tight skirt and black sleeveless satin blouse—that I was a hooker. I would rather believe he was an undercover cop than to think there are hideous creatures like that on the loose out there.

  Oh god, I couldn’t help it. Seeing his chubby behind wiggling away so fast cracked me up. I laughed till it hurt. Poor disgusting little man. You know he had to be embarrassed, having to entrap poor hookers like that. What a way to make a living.

  I propped the sleeping bag, now properly rolled and tied securely, in the seat beside me. In the dark it should look like someone sitting there. No one else stopped, so it must have worked. It wasn’t as if there was a lot of traffic in the park at this time of night anyway, especially with an angry storm bearing down.

  I looked at my watch. Nine-fifteen. Still early to be hanging around in public in this ‘fugitive’ car anywhere too close to the House.

  The storm was definitely mounting. Even the larger, primary trees were starting to sway. Lightning that should have sent me into spasms of panic just somehow served to calm me. The safest place to be in a thunderstorm, after all, is in your car. I remembered. No, I corrected myself; the safest place to be is in a refrigerator—it’s the insulation, apparently—the car is the second safest... as long as your tires are properly inflated. I hoped I got that right.

  Nevertheless, I waited, storm be damned.

  Nine-thirty. OK, Sir had said between nine-thirty and ten.

  I pulled away.

  The convenience store parking lot—my ordered destination—was jam-packed. It shared parking with a church next door, and from the looks of things, my luck, there was a wedding. I found only one space, albeit a perfect one. I backed in. Sitting and reclining deep into the seat, I waited quietly, always preferring to see and not be seen if possible.

  The storm rumbled and contorted around me, swirling papers and debris high into the sky in little mock tornadoes, with dabs of rain just starting to spit against the windshield. I watched the horizontal streaks of lightning slash across the sky, and the vertical bolts burst to the ground. The latter seemed to be striking not only the treetops but the buildings as well. An optical illusion, I was sure. No towering flames or billows of smoke appeared anywhere.

  I wondered if the hard rain would hold off till we got to the House.

  Ten-ten. Sir must be readying something. Possibly at the House itself. I tingled. Yes that had to be it. I wouldn’t allow myself to picture anything bad happening to him. He would be there in due time. Better my waiting for him than ever vice-versa. Besides, I enjoyed waiting for him. It made the rush stronger.

  Every car that coasted into the lot made my heart stop. I could only see the sweep of headlights at first from where I was parked, and then the car’s reflection in my rear-view mirror as it circled behind me. Funny how everyone that pulled in literally paralyzed me in mortal fear. Delicious fear. Each time I wanted it to be Sir, but I simultaneously shook in terror that it might be.

  Strange.

  My clit spasmed at that thought.

  Then I saw it—no mistaking those insect headlights—the reflection of the black, high-ride Mercedes with its huge tires and giant hulk behind me. The second I saw it in the mirror I froze. My heart leapt up in my throat and stayed there, and I was literally too paralyzed to push myself up from my hiding place.

  The Mercedes was slowly skulking, like an SAS scouting party. I knew he was searching for me. I couldn’t rush it, hell I couldn’t even budge! Like when you’re playing hide-and-seek and the person who’s ‘it’ is right beside you and you know if you even breathe you’ll be discovered.

  You.

  Just.

  Can’t.

  Move.

  He blinked first. He had found me. He circled in front of my car and I abruptly burst to life, frozen no more. I was suddenly helplessly impaled on the blazing eyes of my god perched on his ebony throne. He stared down at me with a pleased half-grin. I smiled back. I couldn’t help being in awe, I was so incredibly his. I was overjoyed to see he was all right, that lightning hadn’t struck him, and so happy to be embarking on another sexual adventure with my 3 Commando Brigade soldier. Nothing else mattered. To hell with the storm; Sir was the only electricity on my radar.

  He took the sleeping bag I handed up to him, and I thought for certain I heard him remark positively about me under his breath. That pleased me immensely. Made my pounding heart sing. I turned, retrieved the rest of my things and rounded the front of his Mercedes hoping he was getting a good, long look at his ‘M’. Spotlighted by his headlights this way made me feel like a star on center stage.

  He opened the door and I, bravely as always, tried gracefully to climb in. I had to manage this though, because if I didn’t, in a heartbeat he would hop down, pick me up and sweep me into the seat—swoosh! Though it was gallant and thrilling beyond belief, it also made me feel like a wimp. So I did manage it somehow, spiked heels, mercilessly short skirt, NO panties, and all.

  As I settled into the seat he looked straight at me, his hand gently squeezing the back of my neck as he uttered a very pleased, “You’re here!”

  He stroked my hair and my shoulder, and squeezed me again as if to confirm it all.

  “... At last you’re here!”

  “Yep,” I grinned back. I was here, but more importantly, so was he. Here again, in this tall, black Mercedes where it all had started years ago. Here in the cradle of our creation.

  I smoothed my skirt and placed my hands in my lap, palms up, submissively. He was still sizing me up. That look made my heart pound—visibly though my blouse, I was certain, as were my erect nipples—but I tried hard not to quiver apart. You haven’t lived until you’ve been given the slow, sultry once-over by Sir. It melts steel.

  Sir picked up one of the ankle straps and handed it to me with an excited look. It was always a shock to be presented with my straps so nonchalantly. I took it and caught my breath. He patted the roll bar in front of us. I understood, and complied, placing my foot on it and starting to wrap the strap around my slim ankle. He watched attentively, and then stopped me. Oh, I, the klutz was doing something wrong… ?

  “The ring is missing,” he murmured. I let out a relieved sigh. So it wasn’t me.

  He lifted the center glove box between us and rummaged around. There at the bottom lay the little silver ring which Sir replaced on the strap and then handed it back to me to allow me to start anew. My attempts were futile. Something was wrong, and this time it was me.

  I hadn’t seen him put them on my ankles, ever, and have always been baffled by the loops and turns of belts and straps that double back on themselves as the military things do, so I felt dumb. That’s why I’m an artist; I have to draw things to be able to figure them out. A BA degree and several more, and I still couldn’t figure out how to secure a simple strap. Oh, well, I kept trying, all thumbs.

  Sir patiently watched for a minute before he took over. I relinquished the task to his able hands gladly. He wound the strap together instantly and flicked it tight, as he wanted it to be.

  The other strap was already fastened when he handed it to me. So, easy-peazy, right?

  Sigh. Wrong.

  I set to work trying to put it on that way, but naturally it didn’t work. The closed strap wouldn’t fit over my spiked heel. I should have simply slipped the shoe off, but Sir probably wouldn’t have liked that at all, my taking off his favorite pair of heels without permission right in front of him. So instead I kept working and somehow managed to get it on. Sir immediately took hold of my ankle and checked the strap, to adjust and tighten it to his satisfaction. The perfectionist’s perfectionist, Sir.

  Evidently, I concluded, as I watched wide-eyed, he
did not want the straps to slip, tonight in particular. This was the first close look I’d had of the restraints that held my ankles and legs captive for Sir. There was this morbid curiosity—moth to the flame—drawing me to stare. Sir stroked my leg, my thigh, and up, fingers working into my clit as he absently gazed at my legs.

  He settled back with a sigh, and off we drove.

  As we approached the House which was but a mere few streets away, the storm was definitely starting to rock and roll. The rain peppered through Sir’s window which he quickly zipped shut.

  At last we were at the House. I surveyed the scene. Surely we would not back down that impossibly steep incline in this gully-washer, even with his four-wheel drive. And if we did happen to luck out and make it to the bottom in one piece, I was sure we’d get stuck there. Naturally Sir thought otherwise. He paused only a split second at the top to assess the situation then spun the Mercedes around and hit the pedal. Down we sailed. Unlike me, Sir wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Oh lord...

  I held my breath and grabbed the dash for dear life. Of course the eyes were glued shut.

  Again, all I could do was close my eyes and hang on, though I did mumble incoherently that we were going to die. We’d never died yet, but once would be quite enough. Tonight in this building storm it’d be the perfect opportunity to expire via a host of means.

  Natch, we made it.

  As soon as we’d settled on Terra firma and the Mercedes got quiet, I happily exhaled. I peered out tentatively. New problem: with the raindrops steady now, how was I going to make it up that slippery hillside in these stilted heels, and in all that slowly shifting muck? I gulped. That slippery-when-not-wet grassy grade was going to be impossible. I grasped the roll bar and swung myself down. OK, here goes nothing. I heaved in my head.

  First I made an attempt with the shoes on. Didn’t work. Then I took them off and put the bag down. Sir was coming up beside me.

  “Put your shoes back on,” he stated, shocked, as he offered his hand.

  I couldn’t believe he was actually offering his hand, and even more so, that I was actually taking it.

  “Walk around the Mercedes,” he directed as soon as I’d gotten my heels back on.

  I walked, he followed me.

  “Up the pavement.”

  Pavement? Geez, I felt dumb. There was really pavement? Where had that come from?

  Even on the concrete Sir still had to help me. I couldn’t tell whether it was out of disgust or amusement, but even with him guiding me it wasn’t easy. I sank in the soggy ground at the edge of the walkway. I slipped, I staggered. Sir’s strong arms patiently held onto me every inch of the way. If he hadn’t there’s no way I would have made it unscathed. It was embarrassing; he’d never had to do that before. Brother, did I feel like a wimp now. I had always managed to trip along behind him like a lovesick puppy wherever we went, opening doors for myself and even carrying an extra bag if he let me, to prove I was strong; to prove I was worthy. I’d always made a concerted effort to carry my own weight. I didn’t feel comfortable with him helping me, not this big military specialist. I didn’t want to repulse him with my disgusting weakness, but I certainly didn’t want to have to be carted off to some hospital with a busted knee or twisted ankle, either.

  As soon as I could—as soon as he’d let me—I struggled the last few feet of wet path on my own. If I’d fallen while stupidly refusing his hand, Sir would have been very upset; and had I ruined my hose or his favorite heels while refusing his hand, Heaven help me!

  Finally we were up on the porch and simultaneously the rain was slacking just slightly.

  There was something different happening tonight. It was more than just the fact that we had not seen each other for such a long time. Sir was definitely keyed up about something. But I surmised that it must be the business with the car and his brother, and paid it little heed. It was a powerful current though. It was a lot like the static electricity in the air from the storm. The negative ions of Sir.

  The door was giving him problems. I mentioned that maybe somebody had changed the locks. Sir mumbled no, that he had done it to himself.

  I laid my things on the still-dry railing and smelled the wonderful, fragrant air. Lilacs, beautiful, full, ripe, and dripping with the filtering raindrops swelled all around us in absolute droves. The air was heavy with their bouquet. I drank it in. God, it was wonderful. Thick and misty.

  The stubborn door finally gave way and Sir handed me a cigarette lighter, instructing me to go ahead and light a candle upstairs. I made my way—heels click clacking across the old kitchen floor—to the familiar staircase, and fixing my cat eyes on the top, slowly began mounting it. Once at the top I had to scour the dimness to find a candle; they weren’t in their usual place on the floor beneath the middle alcove’s window. I kept looking.

  I flicked the lighter to help. Still nothing. Why am I so inept? Can’t he even entrust me with lighting one damn candle? One single, solitary, stupid candle? I heard Sir coming. I furiously felt the windowsill. At last! I found one!

  Lighting it just as Sir topped the last step; I placed it on the floor and backed into my corner at the far end of the small, dark, upper room to get out of his way. He was here. We were here. Rapidly now, I was shrinking into that small, helpless creature of quiet submission that I wanted to be.

  My heart started pounding as the reality of where we were finally sunk in. Among my gifts, one is obliviousness. I don’t shoot until I see the whites of their eyes. I can pretend for a long time, but now the eyes were here right in front of me and the time for shooting loomed.

  Too soon. I wanted to fight it another second or two. I looked around to help with anything that would be of some use to Sir and buy me another minute. He was arranging something. I never looked, I never saw. I purposely blinded myself to the ritual tasks he performed around me in that Dream Room. Only my ears betrayed me. I heard the sounds—I knew those sounds—the thud of the Boards being placed on the floor.

  I shivered. Reality was smacking me in the face.

  Hurriedly, I took off my jacket to cover the window facing the road. Yes, that I could do. I knew Sir would want to block out the candle light. I worked fervently, having to tiptoe even in my high heels to reach the top of the window. But, try as I might, there was no way that the small jacket would cover the entire length of the dusty glass. I couldn’t get it to stay up regardless. I wanted to nail it in place, to succeed at something I had attempted in front of Sir. Why must I always be so inept? So all thumbs; so flustered; so female? I hated it.

  I had a sneaking suspicion that he liked it.

  Everything was suddenly quiet, like the birds going silent in the forest when a predator is about. I sensed that Sir was watching me. It was obvious that my efforts at the window were fruitless, and to continue only made me look more incompetent. I stopped, clutching the jacket to my chest in frustration. Sighing, head down, I turned.

  There was Sir, arms folded just standing there. He had been watching me after all. But his look wasn’t one of disgust, rather of patience, contemplation, indulgence.

  Sir was saying not to bother. I stepped lightly across the room, back to my corner to wait. He readied more of... something. Amazing how I could so easily pass over, by, around solid objects in this room and have them become completely invisible to me. A defense? I could not, had my life depended on it, name what Sir was doing now. Odd.

  I looked up at him. He reached out a hand and pulled me to him, gently. His scent was of pine and of fresh Bold detergent. I filled my nostrils with him, so close. He held me tenderly, took hold of my face and, with increasing firmness, massaged my cheeks. I looked down at the floor, so in awe, so close to him. He bent my head back and rubbed over my mouth with his thumbs. He raised my head higher, bent me back further. I guessed that he wanted me to look at him. He was clutching me now, hard. I complied; I raised my eyes to his for as long as I could. It burned and I had to wince. He pulled my mouth to his and
kissed me. I felt his arms surrounding, crushing me, so protected in his embrace, so unprepared for what was to come.

  He released me and I again moved to my corner to await my fate. He was pausing, though for what, I couldn’t say. I was standing right there, but I have no idea how long it was before he finally came for me. I was so disoriented that it could have been hours that I stood there in suspended animation. It could have been days.

  Finally he stopped to look at me, then came over and grabbed a fistful of my skirt and belt to drag me over and down at his feet on the opened sleeping bag. When did he undo and spread the sleeping bag? Where did I go? How could I disappear like that? It was like I was in a time warp.

  No time to contemplate, Sir was shoving me firmly to the floor. I knew what to do next: I reached up to unzip and unfasten, to tug on his pants and slide down his underwear, to fill my nostrils with the scent of his clothes, his hot, fresh skin, the forest scent that I loved, the scent that was only Sir’s. I brushed my hair against him as I pulled his clothes off and placed them on the floor.

  He was quiet, standing there so straight and tall. I waited a moment for instructions, but when I received none, I knew. I took him in my mouth and began. I was so happy to be tasting him again. So happy to be sliding my wet lips over his thick, hard cock and feeling him grow again. It seemed like we had never left our Dream Room. It seemed like we were merely continuing and continuing and continuing; floating in our Time Bubbles like some fragile porcelain figurines from long ago.

  In a way we were.

  Nothing outside this room seemed real anymore. This world—our world—was the only one, true reality that existed. Everything else was phony, and cruel, and ruthless, and fake. The world outside was gone while we were in here. For the moments in which Sir and I built our world, the outside one was suspended, or maybe it was just plain dead.

  Wouldn’t that be wonderful? If all the rest of the world, except for my beloved others, were dead? No more world. Only our world. Only the World of my Sir and his submissive. His ‘M’.