Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  “Sure,” I said, complying.

  “Now stick your ass out.”

  I arched my back.

  “More,” he coaxed. I shoved my ass out as far as possible. “Perfect. Now hold very still.” I heard the shutter open, and a brief few seconds later heard it snap shut. I relaxed, letting my hip sway to the side.

  “Oh, yeah,” he murmured, “cock your ass out like that again. God, these are gonna be good,” he heaved.

  I exaggerated my waist seductively.

  “Now, freeze.” He snapped another few shots. “OK,” he cooed.

  He walked toward me and I turned to lean my back against the wall. My hands raised automatically to touch him when it occurred to me that they were still immobile. Though I had thought that the tie wasn’t tight—just a prop—I hadn’t tested it in the slightest. I was dead wrong. I could not have gotten my hands out. That surprised me. Weren’t we just playing ‘let’s pretend’ now?

  Silly girl. This was Sir.

  Sir smiled indulgently at my obvious chagrin. He took my hands and untied the knots. “Come here,” he implored.

  Sir led me to the center of the room to position me before moving his equipment.

  “Now cross your hands again and raise them high above your head. Like you’re chained to the ceiling.”

  Chained to the ceiling. God how that electrified me. I stretched my hands as far as they would go, and imagined myself shackled, dangling at the mercy and whim of the man in front of me. Sir steered me as I positioned my body and feet. I felt so light, so scrutinized. It was a little like being whipped.

  “Freeze!”

  He was pleased with what he was getting, I could tell. His quietly murmured comments and his labored breathing told me so.

  This was fascinating, Sir arranging my clothing and positioning my legs and body like I was a toy. I was totally mesmerized. He was such a perfectionist. I told him so, remarking with a shake of my head what a fantasy this was. But then that was nothing new; Sir had always been a perfectionist in everything he did. He was an artist after all, with an artist’s soul.

  “Now, squat down,” he moved his tripod to a different spot. “Hands up again, high—stretch higher. Like you’re chained up again.” Sir spoke in deadly earnest. I shivered how his quiet demeanor hypnotized me.

  “This is going to be a long one. Hold very still,” he glanced at my thighs. “This’ll be hard.”

  I straightened and slowly lowered myself down again to the exact position, sucked in a breath and held it. How many squats had I done in my daily exercise routine for years? My thighs were steel-strong and I was now very glad of it. Thankfully, the long exposure was a piece of cake. The pose on the cover of this book—now that was hard to hold.

  Sir had me sit down now between the Boards and place my knees to the side, feet out in front as I leaned back. He came over and slid my skirt up high, pulling and straightening it again. He smoothed and rearranged my clothes—backing away when all was just right—to snap several slight variations.

  I was absorbed with his movements over the camera lens and stops. I loved watching his perfect hands. They always seduced me, those thick, strong, punishing, angelic hands. I had an innocent, mesmerized look on my face, not concentrating much on my expression matching my stance, noting that the shots had been of my legs and body only. Sir caught me by surprise.

  “Beautiful,” he breathed peering through the lens at my face. I blushed.

  “Look at me,” he said. “Ready? Look at me.”

  I looked into the camera instead. I was always comfortable flirting with the camera. It was my friend. It flirted back, winking and clicking its pistol-shot sound straight through you. The camera never intimidated, demanded, or falsely accused. It was friendly and forgiving in its methodical, impersonal way. It pulled you into the spiral-leaf shutter with its promise of instant immortality. I had long adored the camera. Had a long-standing love affair with it.

  I heard the click and released my breath.

  “If you’re going for the face I’d need a lot more makeup,” I apologized, embarrassed.

  “Yeah, I know it,” he agreed, moving the knobs again, but I think he liked what he saw. I was indescribably pleased.

  “Now push your legs out in front of you.”

  I stretched my right knee out and tucked the left back a little.

  “Oh, that’s good,” he murmured to himself. “Man, these are gonna be great!” He emphasized each word. “This is gonna be some good shit.”

  Again several variations were ordered and arranged for one of Sir’s favorite angles.

  “OK. Stand up.” He turned me around. “Kneel on the Boards.”

  The words slammed into me. Kneel. On. The. Boards. More slowly than I should have, I complied.

  He fastened my ankle straps to the eye hooks of the Boards. I was staring over my shoulder at them with such preoccupation I hadn’t noticed that he'd come to the front of me and loosened the bracelets’ nuts. It was a full minute before I realized.

  “Come on,” he spoke, a little impatiently. I turned to see him on his knees, both bracelets readied in his hands. I quickly inserted my wrists and Sir began the tightening.

  My heart thumped. The familiar position and ritual had me thrown; I had to tell myself that this was only for the camera... only for the camera. Sir pushed my skirt up high on my hips, returned to the camera, and I heard the shutter snapping.

  He was now at my rear, leaning over me and unfastening my thick, studded belt. Deliberately, he laid it on the floor beside me. He unbuttoned my skirt, unzipped it and slid it up past my breasts.

  “No,” he mumbled to himself, suddenly coming to the front of me and undoing the bracelets. “I want you to undress.”

  I watched as the bolts were loosened, yanking my hands against them in my haste. “Don’t rush,” he was saying. I relaxed and waited.

  Hands free, I reached back to unfasten my ankles.

  “No. Leave them,” he ordered.

  I turned around to carry out his former request. I raised my unfastened skirt over my head and off, following it with my slip. Sir leaned back against his hands and murmured his breath through parted lips. I took it as approval of my tight, spandex teddy. I replaced my hands in the bracelets for him and he tightened the black beauties down.

  Sir was now working with his own clothes.

  “Time to take a break,” he said, swiftly untying his boots. He slid his pants off and positioned himself in front of me as he moved closer. He directed himself into my mouth as I could not do it myself. I leaned over and took him in.

  “Oh, god!” He heaved deeply. “Oh, god! Please, god, don’t let this be a dream. Please let this be real.”

  It was an unusual reaction for my god, my Magic Sir. But it pleased me unbelievably. I enjoyed him for several long minutes as his cock swelled and grew in my mouth.

  “Let’s get a picture of this,” he said returning to the camera.

  He positioned the panties of the teddy and a bruise caught his eye. “Did I do that? That bruise?” He was indicating the black and blue stripe across my cheek. I laughed a little.

  “Yes, Sir, you did that.” I let a little sarcasm slip through my voice.

  “No, I mean did I do that with my hand or with the strap?”

  “The strap,” I answered, then laughed and coyly added, “no, Sir, actually some other man did that to me, when he had me chained me to the… “

  Sir interrupted, “Hey you’d best watch that, you’re in a very dangerous position, chained to the Boards that way.”

  I piped up quickly, trying to entice him with an innocent smile, “Just teasing, just teasing, Sir.”

  Several more shots were clicked off. Sir draped my thick belt over my waist and hips. “This one’s for you,” he fired off the shot.

  Sir was now unfastening me. It suddenly dawned on me, watching him unscrew the nuts from their long bolts that I could conceivably get out of the bracelets if I wanted. This nast
y breech of submission always gave me hope. Kept the little cat and mouse game alive, so he could punish me even harder. It was a dangerous game to play. Of course I couldn’t escape like that right in front of him, he could immediately stop me if he saw me trying. The escape would take a few minutes to accomplish anyway, but I did see a way that it could be done.

  Sacrilege!

  Nonetheless it gave me a charge just to imagine it. I was a bad scorpion. Bad scorpion.

  With the worm in my brain, I now had to find a time to try. Immediately I started working on the plan in my head of just how I could do it: first I would rock as far back on my knees as possible, concentrating all my weight on the back of the Boards to lighten the front, allowing them to swivel. Then I would draw my restrained hands toward each other, butting the Boards against each other as tightly as possible. Hopefully then I’d be able to reach the nuts of the one bracelet with the other hand to loosen them enough to pull that hand free.

  VOILA! Oh how clever. This dangerous game, if discovered, would have guaranteed my bloodied ass, and rightly so.

  These little beliefs that I could actually escape my bonds were the only way to I could avoid hysterics while restrained. In the case of something over which Sir had no control—for instance if he went to take a leak and forget where he’d tied me, or if he keeled right over from my too-superb dick-sucking, or in the case of a wild-west shoot out with intruders with whom he preferred not to share—I could conceivably save the day.

  Yes, it was cute all right.

  However, all too soon this little fantasy world would be squashed like a bug when the demon Sir, the Beast, was spawned. In the all-too-near future, the ‘games’ would cease entirely, and any silly little ‘escape’ plans of this submissive become terrifyingly impossible, indeed.

  Yes, a cute thought, and one of which if Sir were given so much as a hint, would drive him stark raving mad until he could disprove my challenge. Delicious torment. I would find an appropriate time away from the House, away from the Boards, and drop it casually in his lap, like a dainty, perfumed hanky that accidentally slipped from milady’s hand.

  Too close to the House, even as we were driving away, and I had no doubt that Sir would turn around immediately and hustle me back, usher me across the lawn and demand an immediate demonstration complete with ‘incentive’. Of this I had absolutely no doubt.

  In fact, even if I did wait, I could picture the scenario at the next occasion on the Boards. As time elapsed, nothing would be said, as if he had forgotten the little challenge. Then, when I was properly secured and chained, I envisioned Sir sitting back on his haunches a few feet from me and issuing a challenge of his own, a command to prove what I had so blatantly and haughtily boasted... or ELSE. And the Or Else would slash down heavily on my bared ass till I obeyed.

  I would then lie like a miserable bitch and claim momentary insanity when I had made that statement, a temporary lapse of reason. He wouldn’t buy this at all, naturally. I could picture me smiling and bargaining for his absence for ten minutes, five minutes, in which to try. Of course he would deny me. He would insist it be done right in front of him so he could correct the design flaw.

  I would, I further imagined, try simply stretching out as comfortable as possible to wait him out. Oh lord, had I lost my mind? Waiting Sir out? Now that would be fruitless; Sir could out-wait a python!

  OK, I would keep my mouth shut about this. Zipped, shut, and sealed. Period.

  “Where should I cum? Do you want me to cum in your mouth?” Sir was asking as I slid my lips over him.

  “Oh, yes,” I whispered. “Yes, my mouth, my ass, where ever you like, Sir.”

  He paused, “OK. Get me off and I’ll shoot in your mouth. This time I don’t want you to spill a single drop. Not one single drop. If you do I’ll put you on the Boards and beat you raw. I won’t stop till I draw blood,” he repeated flatly. “And, I won’t do a thing to help you.”

  I convulsed at this, giving a little quiet whimper as I pulled into a fetal position against him. I began to move and work over him harder. I let the wetness glide down over him and slid both my hands up and down on the entire length of his shaft, rolling my tongue around and around on his slippery wet head.

  He stiffened harder than ever before. “Oh, goddamn!” He declared.

  I worked over him and worshiped him as we sat in the corner of the room on the floor, amongst the camera equipment and devices in the half-light of the dying sun. I brought him to climax and I didn’t spill a single drop; and I didn’t have the blood whipped out of me…

  …this time.

  16—The Mansion

  “Now the last time I asked you that question you said ‘no’; and you said it in a loud and clear voice.”

  I had moved far away and into the clear, blue sky of freedom. I was discharged, finally, from the War Zone that had temporarily besieged my life.

  It was an insane escape, and one that required the skill of an IMF force, but here I had landed in this little berg, in the upper floor apartment of a huge, old house smack dab in the center of town. As it turned out it was not far from Sir—only a few miles. It wasn’t planned that way by anyone other than the Fates, but again, there I was.

  I was able at long last to be more available for my Owner at a moment’s notice. One sunny summer morn I got that notice. I was to dress for him—dress very seductively—and be ready to be picked up at my door early that afternoon.

  I was ecstatic with the resounding intrigue in his voice. It was electric!

  I combed, curled, and curried my long, thick, black hair and then donned my fanciest black chenille dress— one with tiny white polka dots and a cinched waist—just the kind of outfit he liked. From the waist, a short faux skirt flared to dance atop the skin-tight, kick-pleated under-skirt. The neckline was inset with a crisp, white bib which formed a ‘v’ to the center of my breasts. Black patent leather spike heels, and white, shear pantyhose, (at his request) completed the picture of a French fashion model.

  I was ready, waiting, and watching out my second-story living room window high amongst the tall treetops. There was no furniture yet; everything I owned was still in storage, so I perched on the wide, white-painted windowsill instead. I heard the roaring growl of Sir’s bitchin’ Camaro long before I could see it, and I was bounding down the winding steps long before he pulled up to the curb.

  Down the staircase and across the tiny foyer I ran, slowing at the porch to maneuver the steps delicately, lady-like, to avoid a spill.

  But once at the bottom I fairly danced the remaining fifty feet to Sir’s idling car. The day was hot, the breeze light, the sun we would soon be driving toward still high off the horizon, and I was going on yet another wondrous adventure with my Sir. Who could ask for anything more?

  What a fantasy-brew of a day.

  I could see Sir watching me as I jaunted down the pathway. When I reached for the door, he pushed it open from inside. I turned and gracefully seated myself in the animal-sounding car. My long legs stretched out their full length and I saw Sir’s eyes affix on them hypnotically. He laid his hand on my knee and smoothed his way down to my ankle. He squeezed it with a shudder.

  “You look good!” He remarked, slowly lifting his smiling gaze to my face.

  I flushed. “Thank you,” I flustered, dropping my eyes.

  Sir kicked the impatient car into gear, eased down the peddle, and we were off. Let the Time Bubble begin.

  I settled back into the leather seat, feeling the heat of the engine against my legs. It was a hot machine, just like Sir. His Camaro was a dynamite muscle car, white with two thick, black racing stripes up the middle, over the top, and all the way to the fin at the trunk. It was unique, and, like his Mercedes, not another one like it in the city.

  I didn’t ask where we were going for two reasons: one I didn’t care where we were going, as long as I was going with Sir, and two, he might actually tell me. The compulsion to know tingled all over me, but I didn’t dare ask
. I’d know soon enough. Meanwhile, I’d just enjoy the electrifying anticipation. The way Sir had requested I dress we could have been going to a fancy dinner party.

  In a way, we were. A party, just like in O.

  We were traveling roads that were new to me. I hadn’t been here in this area long enough to get my bearings, so all the streets were strange. I only knew when we sailed on an elevated arch of freeway crossing high over the suburbs it truly felt like we were eagles, flying on the wind. Free.

  As we were passing a large, glass-walled church to the side, out of the blue Sir looked over at me and announced above the roar of the engine:

  “You’re slowly hooking me...”

  I could have fallen out of the car. My heart leapt in happiness, and I smiled so broadly back at him I bet I outshined the sun. I was higher than the kite I was already higher than.

  Shortly after, this highway ended. We circled around and slowed to loop right. Finally my curiosity got the better of me and I could wait no more. I ventured a query.

  “Where are we going?” I asked casually, being brave. To tell the truth, it still wouldn’t have mattered where.

  “Not much further,” the ever-elusive Sir murmured, wheeling the car. Not an answer. I expected as much.

  I nestled deeper into the seat, the sun now off our left shoulders, and we were down-shifting into the right lane of the four-lane street, busy with shops on both sides, as opposed to the forest of trees and occasional house off the freeway from which we’d just come.

  A few traffic lights and some more shops and nice houses, and we turned right onto seemingly a country lane. The houses immediately got much nicer still and the mature trees lining the street were meticulously groomed and perfectly arranged. The yards morphed into expansive lawns, and the houses, into huge, ornate show places, with winding driveways and manicured vistas, the likes of which I had only seen in movies.

  Just like that, we weren’t in Kansas anymore. I didn’t have a clue where we were, but it was a darn site pricier than the cramped, working-class ‘berg in which I lived. Imposing hedges and high, spiked, wrought-iron fences separated the riff from the raff here. Almost all the driveways were gated with stout grids of metal that stated, 'Bugger off'.