Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  Sir let me please myself at him for a long, long time. He wrapped his hands in my hair and smoothed and pulled it back. I took hold of his hand. He responded by squeezing, gripping, crushing. How could he know what I wanted every time? It was perfect. It—he — was always perfect, every time.

  “It’s almost time to put you on the Boards,” he murmured, finally; his voice steady but strangely thick. There it was again, that electric undercurrent rippling through me. I heard the assertion, but defiantly continued, willfully oblivious to everything but him in my mouth.

  He was pulling away from me now. I wanted to hold on, to continue this pleasant, safe task, to put off the next step which I wasn’t sure I could endure to his satisfaction, but I couldn’t put it off. He had already drawn away. There was no turning back now. I dropped my hand and my head and my eyes.

  He circled around behind me and told me to back up. I felt the straps being secured quickly. WOOSH! He came to the front of me again. WOOSH! I watched, as before, through a veil of hair, as he twisted the nuts and raised the bracelets. WOOSH! This time it was all happening way too fast.

  Unhesitatingly, this time, I obeyed the silent command and placed my left hand in, watched him tighten and test the band, and immediately I offered my other. Tonight, for some strange reason I had no intention of provoking him further. He quickly secured and—as with the left—tested this restraint.

  I was uneasy, something far more frightening than the mere presence of the Boards was terrifying me. He was moving too quickly. Not just hurriedly—his perfect movements were sudden and abrupt as he carried them out, like a robot. Or a demon. It was a blur. I couldn’t keep up with him. I never could, but now it was super accelerated. Something in this was hauntingly familiar. Somewhere—I had the queasy feeling—I had experienced this perfection of movement before.

  Either he was moving in another dimension, I was, or both, because everything I thought and did seemed to be in slow motion. Dream-like. There wasn’t the slightest hesitation from him as he ignored me completely and moved over and around me like a thing possessed. Whatever demon had taken over him must have taken over me, too, because the violent storm that was raging, hammering, and thundering around us now like bombs exploding had no effect on me whatsoever. I’m terrified of storms, as I said, having survived several full-fledged tornadoes, but now I was unfazed. Now my mind was bent, heart thudding dully in my head as all my concentration was on this moment: here, us, him, me, the Boards, what was coming, pleasing him and nothing else. I just didn’t have the capacity to care about anything else. In fact the violent storm just seemed to enhance what was happening to me.

  Oh, what was happening to me...

  Then suddenly I knew—the blindfold. It had been this way with each new device: that frightening blindfold back at Johnny’s, the Boards, and the ankle straps! Each new item had been delivered with a swift, deliberateness so I wouldn’t have time to think. As if he knew that I would be able to side step it, to talk him out of it, or simply get out of it if he gave me enough wiggle room. He knew I would panic if I had too much time to think.

  In fact all of the above was 100% true.

  As this was mulling in my pea brain, Sir had already flashed behind me again. He was disappearing and reappearing as if by magic; blinking in and out. Now he was wrapping his hands in my hair, ruffling it, twisting it, pulling it hard; now he was pushing my skirt up higher, all the way past my waist, and I felt his hands massaging my ass, my thighs, squeezing my waist. He positioned himself to take me from behind. I felt the all too familiar rending pain.

  “Let me relax, please!” I whined. “Let, me, relax,” I pleaded, trying hard not to twist away from him. No good. Mea culpa. I twisted, I stiffened. This time he didn’t wait.

  “No!” The word slipped out automatically. “NO!” I gasped the second I said it.

  “I didn’t mean that! I didn’t mean that! I didn’t mean to say no! It just slipped out!” I pleaded rapid fire. But Sir ignored me. He was pumping into me, and the incredible pressure of the air being forced into my helpless rectum was building. He plowed into me for a brief few moments as I held, sucking in my breath and starting to enjoy it. Suddenly he withdrew and I felt something pass over my head, a shadowy something that he looped around my neck and tugged a little.

  “Do you know what this is?” He stated husky and rough.

  “No...?” I questioned in a tiny voice, thinking after I said it that it must be a collar.

  “Do you know what this is for?” He demanded more forcefully.

  I shook my head as I answered again, “No... ”

  I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine how a collar could help restrain me now, or onto what he would secure it. Sir let it slide off my neck taking my cascading hair with it as he pulled.

  A strap... It was a strap!

  Suddenly I knew!

  Oh god, I knew.

  “No,” I began automatically, not thinking. It wasn’t a question this time. It was a statement.

  There was that word again; the one I’d sworn I’d rather die than utter to him. Oh yeah? No wonder he had smiled.

  Sir had passed something else over my head quickly and was putting it at my mouth.

  “Open your mouth,” he spoke slowly and firmly, fully expecting compliance.

  I opened. I couldn’t believe it. He was gagging me.

  “No,” I tried to get out again, freely spewing the word, having already violated my oath repeatedly. But it was too late. Maybe, I thought, like before, he would merely take me this far and no further. Maybe, if I was calm, did not panic, and did not provoke him more, he would undo it and everything would be all right again.

  I knew better. The swiftness of his movements had told me so. The scarf was painfully dry and tasted of freshly washed laundry. It was knotted and it forced my tongue down. Sir tied it quickly, firmly at the back of my head. My heart was racing, my head was pounding! How did I get here? What was I doing?! I must be out of my mind!

  I felt his hands in my hair, but he didn’t tangle it tying the knots. How was he able to do that? I thought.

  Silly... what a stupid thought at a time like this!

  “Did you think I was kidding when I told you on the phone that I didn’t sleep at all last night thinking about you? ... Did you think I was kidding when I told you this is all I’ve been thinking about?” He leaned over me and felt the gag in my mouth, pleased. He smoothed my hair up and over my neck and my head.

  I felt raw, screaming panic welling. From the pit of my stomach all the way up my spine. Icy fear. Cold fear. Fear that defied description. I tried to protest. I tried hard to tell him. I shook my head. I shook my head again and again, and tried to say ‘no’. But it came out muffled and didn’t sound like a real word at all. I whimpered. This was real.

  He ignored me completely. Sir had gotten up and without any warning I felt the shock of the first lash.

  Like the crack of thunder outside, a scream of pain echoed through me. This wasn’t possible! This couldn’t be happening. I jerked with the unbelievable agony and sucked in a lungful of air. Another lash followed then another. I tried to sit back on the floor to remove the target, but it didn’t work. He could still find his mark. I couldn’t stand it. I made sounds of protest. But they were nearly inaudible and totally indistinguishable. I could not make any recognizable words. I was bewildered by it. Why couldn’t I form the words? In the craze of the pain I could not understand why.

  I don’t remember how many lashes were given. I know, not one more could I have endured without hysteria, and without making more ridiculous sounds than I already had, if Sir had not mercifully stopped. Though he stopped, I continued to pronounce the muffled ‘no’ over and over again. So much for determination.

  “No? What’s the matter? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be my O?” He mocked.

  He knelt down behind me and put his hands on my ass, on the welts. I cringed and gasped in pain. The welts were thick and burning like fir
e. In my madness I could only imagine what they looked like.

  “Oh, god,” he breathed. “Oh god. I wish I’d brought my camera. I wish I had a picture of your white ass with these red welts,” he stroked my ass again, lovingly.

  “Don’t you want to be my O?” He asked again, this time tenderly.

  I tried to nod my head, and tried ridiculously to say ‘yes’. I could not believe I was saying yes after the horrible pain he’d just given me, but then I did want to be Sir’s O, more than just about anything else in the world. I wanted to be able to endure like O; I wanted to be noble, and quiet and submissive like her. I wanted to be used, and held for only Sir’s desires like O was held for Sir Stephen. I wanted to be used, and used up, and then destroyed—just like O.

  It was a dangerous prospect that had always haunted me.

  Since early childhood I can remember thinking of little tortures and sexual fantasies, some of which I carried out on myself, involving pain and pleasure and the touch of the male hand. No, to answer the song, I do not think I can tell ‘Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain’. I have never been able to tell.

  I have searched for so long for ‘Sir Stephen’, even before I knew of Sir Stephen. After I’d found THE STORY, I had the feeling that I understood exactly what was going on in O’s mind. Now I did—I was O, now christened ‘M’.

  I still am, and will always be. There is no ‘cure’ for what I am. It’s all I ever wanted, and what I want to be. Realizing what you are and not fighting it is like falling back into a warm ocean and floating, accepting it. Accepting. Submitting. Orgasming on it.

  I had been drawn to Sir those three and a half years ago by just this compulsion. I knew that I had found the right Sir Stephen for me.

  I can remember clearly saying to Sir: “I’m searching for something’, and Sir’s response was, “I hope you find it. I’m just not it, I guess.”

  He was undoubtedly thinking I was looking for Prince Charming. A rich millionaire. Oh, no, it was not Prince Charming that I was hoping for, but a sadistic Sir Stephen. Only through his own discovery could my Sir Stephen breathe life.

  Others have asked that same question of me: 'What are you looking for? What is it that you want? What can I be for you?'

  The answer was ‘nothing’. You won’t do. I knew that Sir Stephen would not ask me, he would tell me.

  That was then, this was now. Now the entire world had changed. Sir had become Sir Stephen, and way beyond. What had happened to Sir?

  O! O had happened to Sir. Just like O had happened to me long ago.

  Sir fondled the welts again with rough hands. Again the pain shrieked through me. He stood.

  “I think I’ll give you a couple more, just to let you know I’m serious.”

  I shook my head violently at this and again tried in vain to say ‘no’.

  The lashes began anew and I couldn’t stand it. But that did not matter. My ‘not standing it’ consisted of nothing more than holding and enduring the pain. The exquisite, earth shattering pain. The beautiful pain from which I could not get away. I was held utterly captive.

  Somehow, I still don’t know how, I lunged forward on the floor. This I thought, and still do think, was impossible, with my wrists in the position of restraint that they were. It was a fruitless move, nonetheless. On the floor I still was unable to avoid the lashes, and they continued in my prone position.

  Sir finally stopped.

  I was hysterical now. I continued to make the muffled sounds of protest, thinking the entire time in my tortured mind just how truly ridiculous I sounded.

  “Get up,” Sir demanded flatly, not one shred of regret in his voice.

  I raised to the doggie position of before, terrified to do it, but more terrified not to.

  He removed my gag.

  He dropped down again, to take my ass in the familiar way to which he had accustomed me over the course of these several months. This time I didn’t resist at all. He pounded into me and the feeling was suddenly so deep and unbelievable pleasurable, that I began to push back against him.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Fuck me... that’s it. Push back against me.”

  I did. Harder and with more strength.

  “That’s it, baby,” he whispered almost inaudibly. “Yeah, fuck me.”

  I came with such force I couldn’t think. Up or down, right or left, heaven or hell. I came so hard I was screaming and bucking like a bronco.

  He dropped his hands from my hips and let my body do the work. It was truly incredible. This man had chained me to the floor, had whipped me unmercifully, and still I positively worshiped him. Beyond ‘still’, I worshiped him even more. I worshiped him like the god that he was. I worshiped him like he was my savior. I knew at that moment he could do anything he wanted to me because I would give my consent, I would not be able to stand it, but I would gladly give my consent to anything he would dream of doing to me, with me, or with anyone else.

  Sir worked over me and in me and used all of me, every orifice, over and over again. He remained hard for hours, and wouldn’t quit. He destroyed me completely when he took me from the rear, withdrawing fully, and reinserting, popping out again and shoving in with abandon. He knew what he was doing; he knew all too well that he gave me the nearly unbearable sensation of pleasure/pain when he did that—popping in and out. I shook my head; I gasped, but did not refuse him in any way. He did this repeatedly, poising the thick head of his penis at my battered ass hole to push and shove and play, then lube his head with some spit and ram it home. I endured and enjoyed every sensation. I began to love the sensation. God, I was addicted.

  “Talk to me. Tell me how you like it,” Sir quietly commanded.

  I breathlessly poured out my description of the beautiful sensations he was giving me, allowing me, and of the burning tortures my ass was enduring. The pleasures our brand of sex was giving me. I spoke in choppy, broken sentences, my gasping confessions coming in bursts from my excitement and from the merciless pounding my ass and cunt were receiving.

  He brought out and used the artificial phallus on me in both openings, hard. Not holding back in the slightest. He inserted it in my ass and dick-fucked my cunt at the same time. Then he’d reverse it, fucking my ass with his dick, and my cunt with the firm rubber dildo. Over and over again, fucking my vulnerable, helpless, yet obliging ass and cunt as he pleased. They were his after all. I was his captive, in more ways than one.

  He drove me totally wild. It was almost more than I could stand. With each new insertion I gasped and whined, nearly hoarse with my groans of delight.

  All the while savage storms howled around us. They hammered the House and bent the trees. You could hear the trees’ battering branches buffeting the walls and feel the House rock in the wind.

  Tornado sirens went off, and we ignored them.

  “They don’t set those things off for nothing,” Sir had whispered in my ear at one point, totally calm as he rose to pace in front of me to take my mouth. I was oblivious to the storm danger. There was danger enough right here.

  Sir used me up and then kept coming back again. He was incredible. The night was incredible. He finally finished in my ass, cumming after pounding me for hours, now filling me completely after fucking me raw. He was so huge. His cum burned like molten lava in my sensitive, abused insides. He literally filled me with his fiery life.

  The raging storm was finally spent, as we, ourselves were spent. Now the rain pattered softly on the windows and only occasionally did the distant delicate sound of thunder rock the raped sky. The storm had been in sync with us. The storm had followed our sex to a ‘T’.

  Sir released me. I curled up on the floor at his feet beneath the chair into which he had dragged himself to settle with a plop. Sir was heaving, covered in sweat. I crawled close and wrapped my weakened arms with their reddened wrists around his ankles, cuddling myself against him to feel his wet body, to hold him, and love him gently. I stroked his moist skin. I kissed his face and eyes an
d neck, tasting the sweet sweat.

  “Disappointed?” He murmured the question. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Disappointed?” I replied, aghast. “No! I’m not disappointed! You are incredible. Anything you do is all right with me. You could do nothing and it would be fine. You could do whatever you wanted and it’d be fine. You are a god, Sir. You can do no wrong. I worship you.”

  “It’s misplaced,” he said quietly.

  “Don’t say that,” I begged, pleading with my head ducked low. I stroked his naked, sweaty back and began to scratch it lightly with my long nails.

  “Yeah, scratch my back,” he droned. “Sometimes I think that feels better than sex.”

  I continued to run my nails over every inch of his skin and felt him relax and even lean on me a little. It felt wonderful. I was holding this incredible god-like man and he was tolerating it. Wonder of wonders.

  “I can’t believe that you’re actually letting me touch you,” I said so softly, afraid if he heard, he’d wake up and make me stop.

  Miraculously Sir continued to permit me to touch him for the few magic moments he sat recovering from the night’s escapades.

  We were getting dressed now to go. But this time it was different. Sir seemed in no particular hurry. He seemed to want to lag behind for a change. Not at all the norm for him. Usually he was looking over his shoulder as if expecting some of his ‘others’ to pop out and grab him at any moment. Tonight it wasn’t like that. Tonight he seemed like he had something he wanted to say. His eyes gave him away.

  He packed up the things in the room with his back to me. Despite my exhaustion I was ready before he was this time. I started to hum the old Fleetwood Mac tune, ‘Go Your Own Way’. I quietly sang the words to myself. I don’t know if he was listening or not, I sang so quietly. But I sang for me.

  He stopped and smelled the lilacs just like I did, on his way off the porch. That was a definite rarity. Sir usually seemed so stoic, so brooding. Now he reveled in the heady atmosphere. I gingerly climbed into the Mercedes, tossing my bag and purse into the back with trembling arms and sensuously aching and sweetly swollen backside. He climbed up beside me.