“You are an incredible man, Sir,” I said looking at my hands in my lap with a shake of my head and a smile. He didn’t reply.
We made it out on the second try up the hill. No problem. I was so relaxed and content I barely shut my eyes. Who can be afraid when they’ve just survived heaven and hell?
Soon we were back at the deli parking lot.
“At least I can write to you now,” I said gathering up my things, looking around to make sure I had everything. “You should be getting my letters there soon.”
I wasn’t sure Sir wanted to deal with that PO box I’d rented, the one I thought we could share to exchange clandestine correspondence. I wasn’t at all sure he’d want to get tangled up in the mush that was my letters. But they’d be there anyway just in case, and he could do whatever he wanted with them, including tossing them in the trash without reading them. They simply felt good to write; to put my passion into words.
“Drive carefully,” he said to me, another unusual comment. His voice was poignant, fragile, sincere; his eyes wide, innocent, and glowing. “The roads are pretty dangerous at this time of night,” he mumbled shyly, barely audibly. I was so blown away.
I looked at his face reflecting the dim light of the store. I could see it clearly. He gazed straight at me, eyes aflame. He had that boyish look I fell in love with; that open, searching, lost look. He was such a god/child. An innocent savage. A sadist who had just chained me down, whipped me unmercifully, and fucked me for hours. Incredible!
I reached for the door.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
I nodded my head with a smile. I would wait forever for whenever he would deem to call.
“No mushy stuff?” He half-stated, half-asked. Was he making a request for it, or saying there shouldn’t be any? From his look, I believe it was the former. He seemed on the edge of something prophetic. He seemed ready to spill over, emotionally and physically.
I had slipped from the seat to the ground, wobbling a little with the enormity of the night, feeling my flaming ass cheeks seductively bite as I slid down. I turned to look into his lost face.
“Sir…” I began. I was at a loss for words, for the proper words. There was so much I could have said, so much I wanted to say, but I didn’t dare. For Sir’s sake I didn’t dare. My love for him was brimming over.
I choked for a minute on a disconnected word or two, mostly ‘I’ and ‘you’ and ‘Sir’, finishing at a dead end with a slow shake of my head. With a look more poignant, sadder than his, I gently closed the door. I could not look up or back at him, as was usual, but tonight for different reasons.
God, how much I loved this man. God how much I wanted not to change or alter him in any way. I wanted not to be able to do to him the vile things I had done so easily and so willingly to others. Sir was special and there was nothing he needed to do or say or be other than what he was tonight. How could I express that to him? He could love me, yes, but only like Sir Stephen loved O, otherwise I might destroy him. I could never live with that. That would be the worst disaster in the history of the world. I would not let that happen. Rough love, Master and slave love, BDSM love, devotion on my end and dominance on his, that was what I needed to keep the monster-me down.
I opened the door of my car and climbed inside as Sir started up the Mercedes. He usually pulled away just before, or just as me. This time he stopped his car right in front of mine, and gazed out his window at me for a long minute. I blew him a kiss, honored to be his. He picked up his hand in a sort of acknowledgment and I turned my key. Out on the street Sir was driving slowly and still looking back at me. I watched him as long as I could, then turned my car in the opposite direction and headed home, in deep reflection all the long way.
I was in absolute heaven all the rest of that night, feeling the beautiful effects of our BDSM throughout my entire body. Everywhere, I realized, reflected his sadistic touch. It was wonderful. It told me in no uncertain terms I had been sexually adored. I wrote Sir the most ‘un-crap’ filled letter to send to the newly acquired PO box in his hamlet, to match his usual edict: ‘no crap’. It was pure, unadulterated feeling.
Though stiff, I worked out effortlessly, a huge ‘Mt. Olympus-sized’ burden lifted from my shoulders. I was buoyed by Sir’s BDSM magic beneath my wings. I didn’t care in the slightest that he didn’t call. I knew in my soul that he would have if he could.
I dreamed about him all that night. Mostly the dreams were of being with him, following him around like that puppy. Pleasant, fulfilling dreams. But, towards morning, the time when I have my most ‘effective’ dreams, I dreamt something disturbing. It was vivid and in full color, as are all my ‘effective’ dreams.
In this vision I was sitting on a couch in a small room. Sir was sitting on another couch at right angles from mine, so close our knees could touch if not for the little coffee table in front of us. Beside me sat a naked woman, her shoulder-length, dishwater-blond hair all shiny and straight. She also sat close to me—uncomfortably close. She was slender—to the point of being too skinny—and tanned, and I kept trying to see her face. At last I did. Not as young as I feared she might be, my thoughts had sighed in relief. She was touching me, intimately. It was bothering me and I didn’t like it at all.
I didn’t like her—at all. I was extremely jealous of her. Violently so. I kept pushing her away. Finally I stood, picked her up by her skinny little arm and dashed her to the floor. I then proceeded to try to kill her. She offered no resistance of any kind. All the while Sir just sat watching us, arms flung cavalierly over the back of the couch. Finally she grabbed some sort of long silver hat pins and made a half-hearted gesture to stab me. Oh how I wanted her to! I encouraged it, adding vehemently, “Go ahead, but if you do I promise you I will really hurt you. I promise you, you won’t recover from what I’d love to do to you.”
Sir made a comment directed at me from his sitting position on the couch, “I have some metal pins and I won’t stop from sticking them into you.”
I picked her up another time or two—she was now bound hand and foot—and I dumped her mercilessly onto the floor. By all accounts she should have been battered to death by now from the pummeling I had given her.
The next minute of the dream Sir and I were walking out of the door and down a long, narrow driveway, with statues on marble pillars lining the way on either side.
He was a step or two ahead of me and I was tagging along behind as usual. The grounds were beautiful, draped with flowering vines, like the private boulevard of a rich estate. Espalier dotted the gardens, and flowers and herbs scented the warm air.
The dream was disturbing. It was filled with the most terrible outrage and jealousy emanating from me. I just knew that there was someone coming into our world.
There was.
Sir called me. He had just gotten off work. I had been sitting, typing out the memories of our last night together, as I did with all our memories. He was in a forceful, positive mood; one like I’d never experienced before over the phone. He was usually up, but on a scale of 1-10, this was a 20.
It surged hard.
“I think it’s time we added somebody else to our…” he hesitated looking for the right word.
“…world?” I supplied.
“…escapades,” he supplied his own, as Sir would.
“Oh really?” I piped flatly, jealousy rearing its head already. “Sir, I had a dream last night,” I began.
“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “You dreamed…”
“No, you tell me what you started.” I wimped out.
“Finish it,” he said more forcefully.
Maybe if I begged, “No, tell me first.” I pressed, ever so softly, afraid to push it any further.
“I think it’s time we added another woman.”
What I had dreaded hearing, what I’d hoped I’d never hear him ever say was being said—had been said. I shuddered. It was my nightmare coming true.
“Sir,” I interrupted q
uickly. “I had a dream about sitting on a couch with another woman and you. She was touching me and you were sitting across from us just watching.”
“Yeah, and how did you feel?”
“Very jealous and very upset,” I again spat out quickly. “I proceeded to try to kill her.”
“Good, then maybe you won’t mind whipping her. Maybe you’d like to have someone that we could dominate together,” Sir shot back. Wow, way too much information all at once for this little submissive.
“I’m not good at that,” I hedged.
“Wouldn’t you like to taste a warm, moist pussy?” Sir purred.
“I’ve thought about it,” I stated rather coolly, but still intrigued. “Have any one in mind?”
“Yeah,” he said hesitantly, letting his answer sink in.
“Really?” I choked, but hell-bent on not allowing my disappointment to show.
“Yeah,” he reiterated.
“Oh,” I sighed. Who was I kidding? It was impossible to hide it.
“Maybe I should put the burden of finding someone on you.” I heard the sound of Sir swallowing a drink of pop, then he continued, “Yeah,” he let his breath out, “a man and his wife wanted me to have sex with them once, but I didn’t do it.”
I was suddenly relieved. “Somebody’s wife,” I smiled a sigh of relief.
“Yeah. But they’re pretty liberal,” he qualified, “maybe too liberal,” he murmured to himself.
“Nah,” I stated a little too cavalierly. “No such thing.”
“I’d like to have you on the Boards, my dick in your ass, with you eating the woman on the floor in front of you at the same time.”
“I don’t know, Sir…” my voice trailed away in doubt.
“You wouldn’t want to taste a warm, moist, hot, juicy pussy?” he cooed again determined to sell me.
“I guess; if it was what you wanted,” I relented.
It was quiet
“When did you think about this idea?” I asked.
“The other night. That’s where I was taking you the other week when you…” he stopped.
“…blew it?” I laughed. He had called to arrange a secret evening, when I had to report I’d begun my period. Not fun.
“Yeah,” he chuckled.
“Sir…! You mean you were just going to take me out there and walk me into this?” I laughed with him.
“Oh you would have been properly prepared,” he boomed.
“Oh, OK,” I muttered weakly. I guess that was better. He would have told me, or asked me, or... wait a minute. That wasn’t what he had said, and Sir was always precise in his choice of words. Properly prepared. I didn’t like the sound of that. Well actually I really did like the sound. A freaking lot!
“I guess I could always change my mind,” I quipped lightly, testing the waters.
“You wouldn’t have a choice,” he intercepted, and boom, I had my answer.
I was swaying with the intensity of that statement. What those words always did to me. Momentarily I was shaken. Oh, god he knew me so well; he knew I never wanted a choice.
“Oh, I always have a choice with you, Sir. I might talk you out of it,” I sassed, the scorpion really, really pushing her luck. My having a choice was not even a possibility after the other night. Thank god.
Sir was not thrown one iota. He cut me off before my last words were out. “Unless you’re gagged,” he countered firmly.
Now I was the one thrown.
“Yes,” I had to give him that for sure; unless I was gagged. So that I couldn’t talk him out of it, like I’m so good at; so I couldn’t object. “Yes, that’s true.” I shuddered, remembering the gag from two nights ago.
“I remember your saying that you would take care of me,” I found some courage. “I guess I would have to hold you to that.”
“You’d enjoy it.” He paused, thinking out loud, “I just need to make some equipment.”
“Now you are really scaring me.” I was serious as a heart attack, head pounding. Sir always scared me with his wild proposals, because he didn’t just say he was going to do something, he did it. That’s what drove me crazy. He meant it. And what was worse, I knew I would submit.
I was afraid to ask what he was dreaming up. But I knew Sir and I knew it would be a piece of art. I knew that if he made it for me—if it was ‘inspired’ by me—I would honor and cherish it, and be in awe of it to the end of my days. No doubt in fascinated terror of it just as I was of the Boards.
But the seed that he had planted in my brain was itching to erupt. It rattled around like a marble in a glass jar as I moved in a daze the next few days. There was that unshakable apprehension of knowing for certain it would happen—the compelling inevitability of it; along with the helpless reality that I would positively submit. I would give my consent regardless of what he asked, or what or who was involved. I would gladly and willingly do, be, or become whatever he wanted. I was way worse than merely hooked, I was totally obsessed.
I shivered to think of it. Another man, another woman. What would be required of me? How would I react? I still had roughness; I was still an unpolished stone. Would I embarrass him? Could I possibly endure? Was I good enough? Sir obviously thought so. I should feel complimented.
The thoughts of another woman with Sir devoured me with rage. I could well envision me clawing and ripping at the slut in a sudden attack of blind fury. I could see the woman’s husband tearing me away from her and having to grab me around the waist and whirl me into the air like a spitting cat.
I could also see Sir, calmly, coolly overcoming me and confining my writhing body to the Boards, his hard, slow, steady voice doling out the admonishment. His hands administering the pain, real pain. Pain that branded the memory, the scars of which could not be erased. It all intrigued me in a way I can only describe as deliciously sensual.
Thoughts went ‘round and ‘round in my pea brain that entire day and night. I did not sleep. At all. I imagined the scenario of it over and over, and my heart beat like I was running a marathon. I worked out furiously. I ran and ran and ran. Then I worked out some more. I re-read O and wrote and worked out again, before finally collapsing in a heap on the bed in the morning about nine a.m.
In the pitch black I drifted in and out of a stupor in which I dreamed of the path we would take the next time I was with Sir. I would jerk awake in a terror, heart again racing and fear swelling in the pit of my stomach. They were indistinguishable now, fear and excitement. I could no longer tell if I was being pushed away from an act or compelled to it. I truly had no more will. I truly was no longer master of my body or of my mind...
... and I loved it.
Sir had been working so hard. He called me in a wonderful state. He was so positive; absolutely unshakable. He spoke with a directness that made me weak all over.
“Are you going to be able to keep this up?” I asked, referring to his grueling schedule of drive, drive, drive.
“What do you think,” he countered.
“I say think of all that money you’ll be making.”
“I ain’t seen any of that money yet. But I did make good pay yesterday. I’ve only made half that today so far.”
“Wow, Sir, that’s really fantastic. What’re you going to do, put it toward fixing your cars?” I asked, knowing how badly he wanted to finish his Camaro, or his truck which was a lot easier driving than his Mercedes. Considering that I was flat broke, and had no new job prospects, earning any amount of money sounded like heaven to me.
“When I get that money the first thing I’m going to do is buy you some goddamn lingerie, and then I’m going to fuck you to death!” he boomed. I goddamn loved it.
I could imagine the things Sir would like to see me in. I knew he wanted to buy me corsets—black, with laces to cinch it up tight—and he wanted to see me in black garter belts, black lacy bras, and black, silky stockings. But the prospects of the leather that he talked of outfitting me in—the black, tight, short skirts and tops, belts
and shoes — god! Black leather. Smooth, tight, raw-smelling, base, sexy leather. My skin tingled.
Watching the movie Nine ½ Weeks and seeing Kim Basinger’s 'Elizabeth' being outfitted by 'John' (Mickey Rourke), who was dominating her, and observing her submissive, passive, completely detached air in front of the store owners gave me chills—Elizabeth waiting patiently while John selected and tested several different riding crops, so obviously to be used on her. When John went so far as to sting her upper thigh with the one he had chosen, my mind went numb. It made me realize the steps that I must take to be more like the fictional Elizabeth. AND ever more like O. After all, Sir was so much cooler than silly Mickey Rourke, and I was lucky to belong to him.
I had mused how I would blush with scandal if Sir were to humble me in public like that. I wondered if I could allow myself to meekly try on clothes for him, and subject my opinion to his over-riding will while a sales person looked on.
But Sir made everything easy. You just took his outstretched hand, stepped into the ocean of his liquid green eyes, and drowned. That’s it. Simple.
Now, after seeing that movie and feeling the honor that she was bestowing upon her master, deferring to his wants, giving way easily to his every whim, could I do any less? The only possible answer was no.
In the movie that man was not 1/100th of the Master that Sir was. The guy in the movie smiled too much. His eyes were not right at all. In his eyes, the eyes of the man in the movie, I immediately read ‘holding back’. ‘Intimidation’. For whatever reason—fear of pushing her too far, fear of losing her because he loved her, or because he simply did not have the guts for it—he held back. This hesitation was his downfall, in both the plot and with me. I could see right through that man. His eyes twinkled too much. He was too fatherly. He didn’t carry through. Especially that: he didn’t carry through. The actor slightly reminded me of Sir in his rough good looks, his perfect manner, his efforts at mastering his slave, but only as an idol resembles the Golden God from which it was created. Sir was a universe above any comparison of the two, or of any other person that ever lived, for that matter.
Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir Page 19