“Was that truck in our lane?!” I stammered, flabbergasted.
“Um-hum,” Sir acknowledged, steady as a judge. It was the steel of a 3 Commando.
“... It was...?” I squeaked.
“Yes, it was,” he reiterated, firmly.
“Did we almost get hit...” My voice trailed weakly, “head on?”
“Yep,” Sir returned, calmly glancing down at me.
I thought a moment. Normally this would have terrified me, set me trembling uncontrollably at such a close call. But not this time. For some reason this near tragedy excited me. I was getting weird.
“Cool,” I chimed.
“Cool?” He chortled. “We almost bit it!”
“I know. But we didn’t and it happened so fast. Now that it’s over it’s kind of a rush, don’t you think?”
Sir shifted gears. “Suck me,” was his only reply.
Sir drove us back the way we had come that evening. I had been allowed to sit up in my seat on my welted ass and to stop sucking him.
The sun was coming up and I still had to go to work. In fact, I was supposed to be there in thirty minutes. But Sir wasn’t ready to let me go just yet. He wanted to cum again and, having set his mind, he was determined. It just wouldn’t have been right otherwise.
We were up the street from the restaurant where so many hours ago I had parked my car, and Sir pulled over. It was so fantastic, this rolling bedroom on wheels. People all around, beginning their day; some, like the crew of construction workers—one of which Sir thought he recognized as a relative—and no one had an inkling of what was going on in the bunk of Sir’s big, black truck. Me, in all my welted glory. Me, more in awe of Sir than ever, and now submissive to the core.
I watched the traffic glide by as Sir parked the big rig. He stepped from his seat to join me in the back, and closed the thick red curtain behind us. Settling down in the bunk and plumping the pillows beneath his head, Sir reminded me of what I was there for. I had but one duty, to please him and to see that he came. Time be damned, world outside our domain be damned. I made him cum. Every inch of my thighs and ass throbbing, I made him cum.
Sir climbed back into the driver’s seat, pulled his rig to the other side of the breakfast-busy restaurant, away from the crew of construction workers and let me out. I shook my head with a huge grin as I slipped from the mile-high seat. Sir’s green eyes stared hard after me with a reverence and a love that cannot be described. Suddenly the magnitude of the night’s escapades overwhelmed me. On the rays of the rising sun the peak of ecstasy came flooding through.
“Thank you for a fantastic evening, Sir,” I bubbled, beaming. “Nobody does it better.”
Every word was true.
22—Heat…
“You must figure I’m a real dangerous man.”
It was hot... oppressive. Stifling. Everywhere in this Midwest city, and practically everywhere in the country it was blistering hot. The air was scorching. Fires raged not only in the usual California forests, but on all the West Coast, down in Florida, and even up in the normally wet northwest. It was the beginning of a long, pervasive, dangerous drought. I was suffering a drought of my own. I missed Sir like a desert misses rain. I was parched for his quenching.
He’d called me at work, as he did rarely, but which made the surprise even more wonderful. He’d called to tell me that he was thinking about me. God, how that made my heart sing. That this man would even hold me in his thoughts! I was overwhelmed with joy each time we spoke.
It was usually difficult to talk, people in my shared office were too close, and my years of training and the compelling desire to call him Sir, was maddening. But the discomfort was more than worth it just to bathe in the tones of his mellifluous voice.
This morning, as I came back to my desk to see the red message light blinking, it was aggravating to know I’d missed his call. His message informed me that he’d try again in an hour, so I stuck by the phone and sooner than predicted, was rewarded with his throaty, suspenseful “Hello”.
“Oh, hi,” I piped, trying to sound casual for the benefit of my all-ears co-workers. Restraint be damned, I still bubbled uncontrollably. I had to stop myself from concluding my bubbling with 'Sir'.
I thought about telling the others in the office that my friend was named 'Sergio' or, god help us, 'Sir Gaye' or something so I could address him properly—'Sir' for short—but that seemed far too contrived and much too up my personal business. So I checked myself and halted my speech instead, but it was a bummer. To hear my Owner on the other end of the line murmuring that he wanted to fuck my ass, or that he needed to fill my mouth with his cum to which I could only catch my breath and sigh nearly drove me bananas. But it served to stoke the flames of anticipation, as if our sex flames needed stoking.
Tonight was our night. He said so, just that way: “It’s our night,” he promised, then, “I’ve got all night.” I knew what that meant.
I couldn’t wait to get off work, even though the freezing temperatures of the office belied the knockdown, in-your-face incinerator that blasted me as the outside doors slid open. My oven-on-wheels seemed a cruel joke after navigating the broiling heat of the endless, black asphalt desert whose inferno heat radiated up through the floor of my car to the soles of my feet. Oppressive, tormenting, relentless, hellish heat.
Every time I thought about the soldiers and what they had to cope with in the deserts, jungles, and frozen forests around the world; the bullets, insects, isolation, and not to mention the highly classified biochemical warfare terror that our ever-vigilant governments had to counter (and conjure) and our soldiers had to endure, I got sick to my stomach. It was real. Some of those returning troops carried with them (inside and out) the most insidious maladies which, in some cases, defied medical explanation; infections that their precious loved ones—the ones for whom they were fighting in the first place—had now inexplicably contracted. Some of the puzzling manifestations could only be helplessly observed, like the spread of a red tide across a pale ocean of skin. Insane. Demented. It might help somewhat if only I could blame it all on our enemies.
I flipped on my vents, my air-conditioner lacked Freon, so I was further dry-roasted. The hot air blowing out was worse than none at all.
Gotta get that fixed, I reminded myself. Used to be that you could put the Freon in yourself. Now only a certified mechanic could do it. Just another way of jacking up the cost of living.
I understood that Sir was to haul his big rig into town around eight. But that was subjective. Things didn’t always run according to plan. I couldn’t meet him until late, and I even missed his first call at home. But we were old hands at this routine, and patience was an utmost virtue. Finally we hooked up and I was to meet him at 'our spot' in an hour. I hurried, but it always seemed an uphill struggle to get out that door.
I was late. Very late. But the hulk of a man at whose silhouette I now looked up in the dark seemed only slightly irritated with his personal whore. Of course it was hard to tell in the pitch-blackness. Maybe I was just hoping.
To find him I had driven slowly across the huge, vacant, defunct store lot, coasting past a group of itinerant, Spanish-speaking, no doubt illegal workers who paid me no mind. The acres of concrete were dotted with only a couple of other trucks. After pausing to allow two cars to exit, I pulled over to do as Sir had instructed and squeezed into the narrow space he had left beside his truck and some trailers. Thick, vacant woods curved round him front and right, and three or four unhooked trailers sat in a row to his left. Behind him stretched a wide expanse of emptiness with occasional loading activities. Not much went on anymore in this once-bustling, now-uninhabited ghost town of a store lot, left barren when a national chain went belly up. Just another of the perfect little spots Sir ferreted out with his usual expertise.
“What’s happening out there?” He asked, stepping toward my car. Sir’s broad shoulders and naked chest glistening with sweat took my breath away.
I opened my d
oor and reached for my bag.
“There’s a truck that’s loading something up over there,” I answered, “and I had to wait a minute for those goofy-looking people to leave.” Sir glanced through the maze on our left to check out the two guys across the lot loading the truck. They were entirely oblivious of us. Probably more concerned with ICE.
Sir’s passenger door was opened wide. I scurried out of my car and did a little apologetic tug on my shorts as I skipped by. To come to him in these outfits, shorts, slacks, and tank tops, for goodness sake, was atrocious. But late at night, trying to conceal my true identity (Personal Whore) I never wanted to have to explain to any cops who might stop me why I was dressed like a prostitute in this industrial part of town. Besides, the police around our here would just try to fuck me in handcuffs in the backseat of their cruiser if they thought I was a whore. Or if I had car-trouble dressed whorishly, the same could happen from any passerby, which is why Sir usually escorted me nearly all the way home in his big truck. You just couldn’t be any safer than in the arms of that 3 Commando’s man. Nonetheless I tried to make life easier on both of us by dressing down for the occasion when needed.
Sir stepped out and to the front of my car and, muscles rippling, leaned his lithe hulk of a body against it. He invited me to him with an extended hand. I hurriedly approached his waiting hard-on, and tossing my bag on the hood of my car, dropped to my knees. I loved feeling him grow in my mouth. I loved the taste of him, the scent of him. The feel. He let me suck him to new proportions.
“Are you wet?” He asked throatily.
“Yes, Sir,” I breathed. I was. So wet. “Wet like a whore, Sir,” I continued the proper response he had taught me.
He stepped away, pulled me up and spun me around. Leaning me over the still-boiling hood of my car, he grabbed the waistband of my shorts, unhooked them and let them fall. I was wearing stockings and black panties underneath. The stockings were permissible, but panties—of any kind, unless specifically requested—were not. I was lame even to wear them at all tonight. Now they hampered my Owner’s way. I immediately pulled them to the side and spread my cheeks as wide as I could. He plowed into my cunt like the big rig driver that he was. I heard David Bowie once call them 'lorry drivers', and he did so with the utmost respect. “I’d hit him like a lorry driver” he’d told the TV host when asked what he would do if a man insulted Iman. That’s how Sir fucked me now, like a steam-driven, overloaded, hell-bent lorry driver. My hot car he was leaning me over rocked harder with every thrust.
Sir paused long enough to rip my unseductive-looking shirt over my head. Wadding it into a ball, I shoved it aside. He resumed his pounding a few more strokes before jerking my black bra up, freeing my breasts, and pushing their bared flesh down onto the hood’s blazing metal. I moaned my pleasure at the skillet-hot heat against my sensitive tits as I struggled with sweaty fingers to hold my wet ass cheeks wide for him.
The strokes went so deeply that they uncontrollably pounded the squeaks and gasps right out of me. We were in this parking lot, men a few hundred yards away—men who would probably love to me chinga culo right along with my Owner—and this man was nailing me against my car like they didn’t exist. It was wonderful.
At last Sir took me by a handful of hair and guided me upward.
“Gather everything and get into the truck,” he directed lowly.
Snatching my shorts which lay at my feet, and my shirt and bag, I climbed up and in, and headed straight for the back. I quickly removed my shoes as Sir climbed in after me. Tonight he left the windows down, the heat was so unbelievable. Temperatures way over 100 degrees were pelting the entire Mid-west and no relief was in sight. On the West Coast, streets were actually melting under the broiling sun, huge hunks of asphalt sticking to tires and impeding driving like in some sci-fi movie. I had never heard of such a thing. Temperatures were expected to rise to 110 degrees during the next week even in our usually mild climate. Incredible. But now that the sun had been down for hours, and with a teasing breeze stirring things up, the heat of this third evening of summer promised to be nothing compared to Master and slave’s erotic sizzle tonight.
I began sucking Sir again as soon as he stripped off his jeans. Almost immediately, I could hear the familiar rustle of the bag in which Sir kept my restraints. I could hear, not see from my position of servitude, the clinking of the chains and clips, and the sounds sent quaking shivers down my spine. It was taking place quickly tonight, the ritual. I would be whipped right away. Probably more than once in the course our session.
I no longer fought it mentally, the binding and even the actual restraint. In fact, I anticipated it more and more with the greatest of hunger, even coming close to asking for a dance with the Wire, that old, beloved, and lately retired playmate. I hadn’t got that brave yet. Not yet. But I could feel it in me. All I would have to do is timidly ask for it and my Owner would gladly oblige, though I’d regret it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I was sure he always kept it in the back of his mind, the Wire. It’s just that the necessity for it, silent welts, was no longer as dire. Not with his truck, his 'Rolling Roissy'. In living rooms, dining rooms, and near-to-civilization wooded areas, the Wire’s use was mandatory, dictated by that need to whip me with an instrument that left luscious marks, but the sound of which people in the next room would be unaware. Now, in this thick-walled tomb on wheels, with relative impunity any instrument could rock and roll to my Owner’s content and no one in the outside world would be any the wiser. He could choose literally anything his sadistic and my masochistic heart desired.
I had needed to be gagged several times. A predicament that I had feared to hysterical proportions until my Owner had made me wear a gag for hours and hours while riding around in his semi, to be broken to it. I had necessitated the gag once when I needed to be severely punished, once for talking and begging too much, and once for screaming too loudly when he was whipping me particularly hard with a doubled cord. Now I even fantasized about being gagged and beaten.
My Owner had methodically fastened my collar, each bracelet and anklet without comment, and he had cinched the thick, black belt around my waist so tightly I had gasped. He fastened clips to each bracelet and to my anklets, ready to lock me into place.
The preparation complete, I dutifully rose to my knees, turning and facing the velvety, padded rear wall on the bunk. I slowly extended each restraint-encircled hand. First the left which he drew across even further and clipped to a waiting chain on the wall—a chain he had drawn between two hooks embedded into the back wall—that was just under the bunk out of sight. Then the right, as I gasped and whined at the exaggerated stretch.
“I can’t support myself this way!” I whined. I could always relax and let my head rest on the bunk, but that was too simple. I had to anticipate scary things, like not being able to breathe if I buried my face into the bunk. A prospect that was not going to happen, but still, I had to whine. It was just my nature.
“Be still,” Sir murmured.
The truth was I was terrified of it because I knew that I was totally helpless this way. In this position, just as I had been on the Boards back at the now infamous House, I could not get free. I had to submit, accept, and obey. It drove me crazy with passion and fear. Especially fear.
Sir now fastened a short length of chain to my collar and then clipped it, too, to the long chain restraining my wrists. This drew my head nearly to the bunk so I could not buck and rear. My Owner, meticulous and methodical as he was, took great care to imprison me just right, cinching the belt that was like a narrow corset to a ceiling hook till I was barely able to move at all. It was delicious. At last my ankles were snapped together and joined to another hook at the middle of the front of the bunk. The binding complete, I was trussed up like a fat doe for skinning. A tugging at the wrists and a whining wiggle of my ass was all I could accomplish. For better or for worse, I was totally under his command.
My Owner and lord slowly smoothed his hands
over my white, ample ass. He stroked and smoothed for a moment before pausing. I knew exactly what that pause meant; it meant he was picking out the instrument of choice for the first round. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
I had been previously cautioned the first time I was put into this marvelous position, that I had two choices:
1) To behave and accept my Owner’s pleasures with only gasps and whimpers and then get rewarded with a sanctioned cum, or
2) In lieu of less acceptable behavior being restrained on my back and whipped with the Wire
a.) Beginning with my soles, working up past my knees to the bottom of my neck, including, of course—and particular attention being paid to—my tits.
Since that warning, I was careful to behave and accept it. In addition, I was beginning to cum during the whippings without even touching myself... but only with my Owner’s permission, of course. Ahem.
Easy choice. The fiery kisses, though horrific, had been nothing compared to my sessions with the Wire—so far. With the Wire, I would nearly pass out. Waves of nausea and dizziness would sweep over me in a sickening wash. I was to endure them with little or no noise. At least now, with permission, I could cry.
The most awesome of them all, though, had been the cane. It was a 30-inch-long, stiff, hollow tube of thick plastic which my Owner had taken infinite care to thoroughly wrap with black plastic tape, “Till my hands ached”, he’d said. The cane was approximately ½” in diameter at the handle tapering to ¼” diameter at its tip. The pain it delivered with a full-strength blow from my Master was unspeakable. The re-verb from it felt like a lead pipe hitting my ass and the shock wave traveled into my butt muscles and through to my gut, instead of back out through the welt itself as a 'normal' instrument would have allowed. He had introduced me to it on the Boards back at the House and I was in such a hysterical state afterwards that I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. For hours I was in another world. For days I was in shock, and the swelling of my throttled skin rose in great, thick welts, apparent even through my dress, not to recede for some time. It certainly took me to new heights, though my terror of it since was absolute. I had had more thorough beatings, but the cane was undoubtedly the worst instrument I had ever experienced.
Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir Page 30