Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  Sir carried through. Oh god, he carried through. If not before, I was now thoroughly convinced that Sir would do exactly as he said. That was the dark side of the moon that both terrified and lulled me. Because of this wonderful, worlds-apart difference I would walk with Sir anywhere and in any way he ever demanded. Proudly, gladly. Appreciative of the fact that he troubled himself enough to discipline me as his slave.

  Sir was beginning to crack the shell of my tough cocoon; really crack it. Before, I had more or less let it happen, to float and let him tentatively delve into my psyche, sure I could stop him or myself anytime if I felt that the chisel was chipping too closely to the real me. Lately, especially after our last encounter, I no longer had anything resembling control of myself—neither of my body nor my mind, and edging toward not of my soul.

  I loved it. It was exactly what I wanted now.

  This was what I was made for, as Sir reminded me. Yes, it was.

  15—Dark Shutter

  “Talk low, talk slow, and don’t say too much.”

  Suddenly everything was going haywire. First, complications with my wonderful Sir. He was being screwed at his new job money-wise. Big time. He was having premonitions about his ‘others’ having found out about us. He was even talking ‘3 Commando Brigade’ again. No, no, no, no, no! Please no!

  It destroyed me. I couldn’t wait to see him and lend him my magic if I could. Although I knew I would not hold up to the tantalizing 3 Commando Brigade talk. I knew I would beg him not to consider going back over; knowing, too, that begging would not make one wit of difference if his mind were set.

  Then there was the lack of privacy in my situation. People walking in and out constantly, no warning, little hot water, less time. My home situation, I described aptly, was a ‘war zone’.

  But all worries aside for now, Sir had called me and we were on. I was quivering with both excitement and extreme trepidation.

  I finally accomplished all that I needed, and hurriedly dressed, drying, but not curling my thick, wild hair, just letting it flow free. I put on the new black teddy that I had bought for Sir along with the sheer, black pantyhose instead of stockings. It gave me a longer, leggier look; one that I’d previously hoped would be presented to Sir in a different light, namely candle, but sunlight was going to have to do today. It had at least been cloudy with a drizzling slush in the morning, but now even that had given way to a bright, cloudless sky. I pulled on my black slip and slid my sleeveless shirt over my head. Tucking it all into my red-herring jeans and quickly donning my tennis shoes, I grabbed the rest of my clothes in the two bags and whisked myself away to my car.

  Sir had requested that I pick up a few items on the way, and I pulled into the shopping center to snatch them up, then run back out and hit it. At least that was my plan.

  In the store, every line was slow. I checked and rechecked the clock as I waited, impatiently tapping my foot. OK, I would be late, but only by about five minutes. Finally, the clerk rang me up and I was out the door. Then came the kicker. Where were my keys? Oh, no, say it wasn’t so. I looked in the window. Abso-fuckin’-lutely. Yep, there they were, in the ignition. Where else? I madly checked for my second set. OF course not. That would have been way too easy. I was screwed.

  Back into the grocery store I plodded, trying to stay calm, realizing that rushing was what got me here in the first place. I phoned to ask that my second set be run down to me. Oh, Thrills-ville. That went over like a lead balloon. I think I’d interrupted one of their evangelists on TV, or something equally horrible. Reluctantly they said they’d do it. Next I checked with the counter guy for a coat hanger. He was skeptical and inquisitive. “Whatcha gonna do with a coat hanger, yuk, yuk, yuk.”

  Yeah, I’m committing grand theft auto. Jeez. Nobody home. Just gimme the damn coat hanger for gosh sake, and HURRY! Finally I got my coat hanger just about the time my second set of keys arrived.

  I thanked everybody, returned the hanger and jumped into my car, no explanation to my nosy ‘others’.

  I started the engine and peeled off. I was twenty minutes late at this point. Sir was going to be convinced that I wasn’t coming. That’s all he needed to ruin his day. I drove like a fiend. I applied my makeup and undressed and re-dressed like a fury. People in the cars next to me got a wonderful show as I tore off my clothes. I made sure they did. Hey! Let ‘em suffer, right?

  I was just slipping into my right heel as I rounded the last corner before the House. This was cutting it too close. Would he still even be there? I coasted into the parking lot of the apartments down the road where Sir had told me to park this time. The grade was just as steep as the House’s, only with a much better driveway. Nonetheless, to manage it in heels was going to be a challenge, but one that would be met! I winced as I glanced down at my watch. I was a full forty-five minutes late now. Terribly late. I gathered my things, straightened my skirt under my new thick, black, studded leather belt that I had been mesmerized with from the minute I saw it in the store—knowing it was way too expensive for me to consider buying, so I did anyway—and skittered out the car door.

  This apartment complex wasn’t upscale. The radios of two parked cars down from mine thumped loudly as a couple of men sprawled out, swilling their 40’s and catcalling me, but I ignored them. I wasn’t in the mood for any crap, as late as I was. I slammed my car door and hustled up the steep incline, swinging my backpack over my shoulder as I stomped.

  The trek up the concrete hill wasn’t too bad, but I hated to pound my metal-tipped heels so hard as I rushed. I had been known to snap heels in less of a hurry before. Click, clack, click, clack! could be heard echoing all around the lot, like the lady in the beginning of the Pet Shop Boys’ West End Girls.

  The sky had faded to dismal gray, and drizzle was once again dabbing the ground. I pulled my little coat around me and, now on the road-official I turned right to traverse the last few hundred yards to the House. I glanced over my shoulder for cars. If they came, they’d be whizzing, but I was not going to cringe away. Yes, I would pit my body against a two-ton car today; they’d better just back the hell off. What a sight! A woman sprinting along in the middle of nowhere, decked out in black hose, mini skirt, and shiny black four-inch heels, toting a bulging bag, and striding the maximum length of her long legs down this rugged narrow 'country' road like she was charging into battle. Don’t like it jerks? Get over it. I ignored the possible complications that could arise. None that I couldn’t handle. With the pissed off mood I was in, I would simply industrial-strength mace the hell out of whoever crossed me, without batting an eye. And failing all else, I’d scream at the top of my lungs for Sir. He’d swoop down and shoot their asses like Rambo. But was he even still there? The best I could make out—blocked by the thick wall of scrunge—there was no sign of the big Mercedes anywhere. My heart sank.

  Was all this bravado in vain? I could picture me having to slink back to the 40-oz-ers with egg on my face, or worse, being carted away in an ambulance if one of those speeding cars slammed me.

  ... Sir...?

  I trotted along resolutely, slowing when I reached the pull-off that Sir had hacked out for me, where I ducked in. Throwing a quick eyeball left and right, I edged closer to the scraggle hoping to pry it open enough to get a glimpse of the House far below, and—please God—maybe discover Sir’s Mercedes down there, too. With tentative fingers I parted a few branches and peered through. Nope. No House, no Mercedes, but there at my feet did lay something else I could use: the long stone staircase that I knew wound its way through the briers and brambles, eventually ending up at the front porch. It was so badly overgrown that it was guaranteed to rip my face and hose if I wasn’t very careful. I paused for a moment to check out the alternative a few yards over: the pot hole-strewn driveway with its ankle-twisting chunks of loose asphalt and unbelievably steep angle. It wasn’t even a consideration. Between risking death by skiing down the driveway on my ass or battling the overhanging trees and brambles to break a leg sl
ipping down the mossy stone steps, the choice was clear. I had to get to the bottom somehow. I pushed through the brush.

  At least there was a rickety metal handrail to hang onto, missing pieces and all.

  I tread cautiously. I still couldn’t see hide nor hair of Sir’s Mercedes, mostly because I didn’t dare look up as I held on for dear life to the shaky railing.

  The brush snapped back around me as I shoved my way through. The damp stone steps were covered with snail slither, glistening and sparkling in long, lazy stripes. It was impossible to keep from crushing some of the beautiful mollusks under my feet no matter how gingerly I stepped; there were hundreds of them inching their way all over the stones in their iridescent, painted shells. What a wonderfully private place. I felt bad about the crunches…

  Though scrupulously attentive to the wet rocks and frighteningly frail handrail, at last I hazarded a quick glance ahead. THERE IT WAS! THE MERCEDES! YAY! I was able just to see the edge of it peeking out of the shadows at the bottom of the curved driveway, tucked almost invisibly behind some trees. I breathed a sigh of relief with the re-starting of my heart. As I delicately picked my way down step number twenty-two, clinging with a vice grip to the wobbly railing, I raised my eyes to see if there was any sign of Sir in the Upper Room.

  Ha! YES THERE WAS! Though not exactly IN the Upper Room.

  He was there on the roof top, barely visible to the unsuspecting eye, hunkered down in a squatting position, and smiling down at me like a gargoyle.

  SIR! I shook my head with laughing eyes.

  From his bird’s-eye view he had obviously been watching me the whole long way: from the apartment buildings, to the trek on the treacherous highway, to my hesitation at the steps, to my timid, protracted descent. He would have known before I would, if anyone was stopping to snatch me. If anyone—like the several carloads of blacks in the parking lot—tried anything, heaven help them. I shook my head in amazement. It was like having Tarzan, Rambo, and James Bond as an Owner all rolled into one. Only better. This was Sir, and Sir was better than anyone, or anything, anywhere.

  “You’re late,” he approached the edge of the second story roof completely unafraid. I thought he was going to jump.

  “I’m sorry!” I gushed, looking up. “I locked myself out of the car,” my voice trailed off. It sounded so feeble.

  “Where?” Sir seemed content with this, sort of. It was hard to tell not being able to see his eyes clearly and he was turning away from me to climb back into the window from which he had obviously come.

  “The grocery store…” I began, immediately realizing that this was the same as saying ‘south.’ …In town.” Greek again. “By my house.” I finally cleared up the mystery a little.

  He was inside. Now at the bottom after 35 steps, I crossed to the porch and tried the door, but of course it was locked. I waited. He appeared, beaming his maddeningly intriguing smile, eyes penetrating me like laser beams. The smile faded as he looked me over. I held my breath.

  “Where did you dress?”

  “Here, in the parking lot, and on the way,” I answered still tucking my shirt. Oops. I walked to the far side of the kitchen and put my things down.

  “Go upstairs and put your bracelets on. Wait up there for me,” he said without hesitation, a little forcefully.

  I complied immediately, trotting up the stairs with a bounce. Once there I dropped my bag and my purse on the floor. I picked up my ankle straps and looked around to see where I should sit to put them on.

  “On second thought, come down here,” Sir said, from the bottom of the narrow staircase. I turned and began the descent. He was standing, arms folded, watching me navigate each step. As I neared the last one, he stood staunchly blocking the way, waiting patiently for me to reach him.

  “Go get your things,” he sing-songed indulgently, like a father with his two-year-old.

  I had the distinct feeling that he was running me up and down the steps just to see me jiggle. I swiveled and again obediently ascended the stairs without a word. I gathered up everything, and turned to re-join him downstairs.

  But I didn’t get all the way down. He stood there like a statue at that same spot at the bottom, halting me in my tracks. My breath hitched. Even in my heels and standing on the second step up, Sir was taller than I. He wrapped his arms around me.

  “You’re extremely late,” he reiterated more boldly. I shivered at the indictment.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, hugging him tightly, then pulling back.

  Sir slid his arm around my waist and drew me firmly against him again. He ran a rough hand through my hair, clutching a fistful and pulling my head back to kiss me. The embrace lifted me off the step.

  “I thought you weren’t going to show,” he murmured quietly.

  “No! Sir! I would never do that!” I offered sincerely, hugging him again.

  He stood there for another minute blocking the stairs like a huge human wall as he held me tight. At last, with a satisfied murmur he let go and stepped back to face left. He swiftly unlocked the door beside us of a room into which I’d never been. Drawing the door wide, with a slight gesture he waved me to look. This was obviously the living room of the House. It was many-windowed, empty, roomy, and swept spotlessly clean. I remained on the second step, safe for the moment, placed my hands on the ceiling just above my head for balance and leaned forward to cautiously peek inside. I did not know what to expect; I was afraid to guess! I was terribly late, after all.

  “You’re late,” Sir boomed. I jumped, as if he’d heard my thoughts.

  He had repeated that phrase too many times this afternoon for it not to hold a special significance. I tried to ignore my intuition.

  “Go on! In!” He motioned, gruffly. Then, one-eighty, his broad smile lit his eyes, “Photo session time.”

  What a relief! He was playing with me! I eagerly looked more closely now—now that I wasn’t scared shitless. Yep! There it was, Sir’s photo equipment arranged precisely around the room, along with burning candles, the green camouflage sleeping bag—unrolled but still stacked in the corner—my ankle restraints, and several loops of rough, sisal rope. In the center of the room, gleaming in the meager light of the only uncloaked window, my elegantly beautiful Boards were a portend of what was to come.

  Sir took my hand and waltzed me to the front of the house where, gently cradling my hand he lowered me to the floor before a tall, thickly draped window. I knew I was to put on the straps. I did.

  As always, when I’d donned them, Sir checked and tightened the straps just so, as I sat, compliantly waiting . He pulled them even more firmly this time as he precisely adjusted the metal rings. Satisfied, he told me to stand. I quickly rose.

  Enfolding my trepidations in quivering arms, I hugged myself tightly under Sir’s surveying eye. Up and down he scrutinized me, ever so slowly basting me in his creative juices. I lowered my gaze to my pointing toes and clicked their metal tips together. There’s no place like home... there’s no place like home...

  Satisfied, he stepped behind the tripod to peer through the camera lens with a thoughtful expression, delicately adjusting the knobs. “Go stand in the corner,” he indicated with a slight jab of his chin while paying me little heed. He casually returned to his aperture.

  I trotted to the spot he’d indicated and backed up to lean on my hands against the wall. The tall window at my right looked out on yet another section of our thick woods, and through them, far off in the distance I knew the brick apartment buildings loomed. The light filtered in sleepily from this sole uncovered window, shrouding the room in a dreamy half-light.

  “Crouch down,” he directed. He clicked off several shots. “Place your arm over your face; draped across your eyes.” He studied his lens. “Open your legs wider. Spread your knees further.”

  Next, Sir approached me and had me rise. He picked up a length of twisted rope from the floor. “Give me your hands,” he demanded. “Cross them.”

  A tingle ran dow
n my spine as he encircled my crossed wrists twice with the coarse sisal rope and tied it at the back. He tugged the knot snugly.

  “Move to the edge of the wall,” he indicated a spot of sunlight glimmering there.

  “Lean back,” he paused a moment. “Feet out further.” He fired more shots. Sir came close, rearranged my legs and feet, and took another picture.

  “Turn your right foot out more at the toe. I want to catch the light on it,” he intoned. I aimed the shiny metal tip outward as directed, but I could tell by his narrowed eyes it wasn’t right yet. “Can you tilt your foot more? Angle the bottom up.” I could hear the creative gears grinding.

  I complied.

  “That’s right,” Sir breathed, content at last. “Now, freeze!” The shutter click, click, clicked away.

  “Turn around,” he now droned in his quiet monotone. He guided me by my shoulders to face the corner with my back to his camera.

  “Put your hands up,” he helped me to place them, still bound by the rope. “Higher.”

  I stretched with a grunt.

  “Now pull your feet back and open your legs more,” he stated as he helped to reposition them precisely.

  Finally, backing up, he silently observed his dramatic scene. More slight foot movements, more tiny adjustments. He roughly dusted my black outfit free of cobwebs, and painstakingly picked off bits of ancient wallpaper that clung to my black clothes. He arranged my shirt, pulling out the wrinkles and smoothing the excess material to the front. He did the same with my skirt. Working for several minutes he gently jerked and tugged at it, smoothing, perfecting, like I was a mannequin in a store window. Or a model for a BDSM magazine.

  He stepped behind the tripod again. I could feel the camera lens boring into my back. “Now drop your head,” he whispered softly.

  “Further,” he was checking his viewfinder again. Still he wanted a bit more. “Can you drop your head between your arms?”