Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  Once I had been restrained spread-eagled to my four-poster bed on my stomach, and beaten with this cane until I screamed uncontrollably. It only took three welts. I was unable to control myself in any fashion. I would have broken my own wrists to get free.

  My Owner had never used an actual riding crop on me, though I expected it at any time down through the years. The scene from 91/2 Weeks in which Mickey Roarke’s character took his submissive to the tack shop to choose one always stuck in my mind. It was a unique humiliation and honor at the same time. But he was never shown actually using it on her in the movie. Ahh therein lies the rub. Of course I cannot fathom Basinger’s rare white flesh being so marked—on camera.

  Tonight I was trussed up in the position to which I was quickly becoming addicted. I dreamed about the position. I fantasized about it. I came to it over and over. Pretty close to addiction, I’d say. Now I could literally feel the cunt juices oozing as Sir sat back to bask in my helplessness, just before letting fly.

  The first welt felt like an electric shock. I gasped.

  The second, third and fourth, rapid fired, felt worse. I grimaced my plea.

  “Sir, the windows, they’ll hear me tonight!” I whined.

  “They’d better not!” He warned. I shut up immediately.

  I bit my lips and whimpered through shivering gasps. Each blow came on the heels of another and the only relief was when my Owner paused to make the marks symmetrical on each cheek, a penchant of his. It was an artist thing.

  Once my Owner and I were watching a porn movie in which the submissive was to hold on to a rack behind her and not let go while her legs, mounted to a stretcher-bar were hoisted up in the air, exposing her bare, vulnerable ass. The Dominant and Dominatrix raised the woman’s legs unevenly. This bothered my artist Owner immensely. He commented on it and found it unsettling. I agreed. We artists are a particular bunch.

  Symmetry, at times, is important. Having my ass cheek’s stripes match pleased Sir. He paused to adjust exactly that right now.

  The few seconds of remission served to let the pain sink in and to let my cunt get even wetter in anticipation. As surely as day follows night, the equalizing stripes were laid down. I wiggled and gasped and finally whimpered and cried, but I didn’t scream. I dared not scream. I did beg 'please' once, but checked myself. When asked “Please what?” I quickly whined, “Please whip me more, Sir.”

  He obliged.

  After a few more sweat-producing moments he paused again.

  “Do you want to suck me?” He asked. I was wiggling and grinding uncontrollably, like a proper whore.

  “Yes, Sir!” I moaned enthusiastically.

  “Just a few more and we’ll see,” he resumed the whipping. He was using an instrument that resembled an antenna, thin, lightweight hollow plastic. My ass and upper thighs felt like liquid fire had been poured over them, literally.

  I was soon unclipped, but not unbuckled. That is to say, my bracelets, anklets, collar and belt were left on while I was allowed just enough freedom to suck my Owner’s large cock.

  After a whipping, my passion was always greatest. I would fall upon my lord’s cock like a hungry bitch and suck with hot fury. My sounds while I did were animal-like. It all made my Owner’s already hard cock even harder than hell.

  “Remember when I fucked you on top of my Camaro?” He stroked my hair tenderly.

  I nodded my head as I eagerly devoured him. Ahhh, I remembered it well.

  “With your feet up in the air and your heels on and the hot night air all around us?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I paused, saliva drooling down my chin onto his swollen head. “And they watched us from their house?” I recalled. I remembered it had been a source of contention to the insane, cat’s udder bitch who couldn’t believe she wasn’t enough for this god.

  I resumed my sucking, picturing that marvelous night so long ago. Oh, how that night had been magic. I rode Sir’s roller coaster of emotion that night, submitting to whatever he had wanted me to do or be. God, was it worth it!

  Suddenly, with a surge, my Owner took to the buckles of my wrist restraints. He proceeded to loosen my collar, then my anklets. He tugged free my waist restraint last of all. Quietly, I had continued to suck him. Perhaps he’d heard a suspicious sound outside, I theorized. Whatever it was, it wasn’t my place to deal with, just submit to his will and get out of the way if bullets flew.

  “Get your heels on and get outside,” he ordered quietly.

  I was only a little surprised, but obeyed him instantly.

  I slipped on both tall, black heels and scooted into the front seat, my bare ass reluctantly sliding on the leather. I pictured how I was clothed and in what I was going out into the night air—only stockings, heels and a bra—but balking didn’t enter my head. It seemed only right to obey him; more titillating, wilder to be almost naked; and it was cooler outside, even in the hot night air, than in the rolling oven on wheels.

  I grabbed the door handle in my left hand and the truck handle on the side of the tank with my right and hoisted myself down without letting my heels touch the open grating on the metal steps. At the bottom I crossed the few feet to my car and turned to lean against it. By the time I looked up, Sir was sitting, naked, half in, half out of the high passenger seat, knees wide apart, observing me. In the darkness, he appeared even larger than life, and that was one tall order.

  I straightened, reverently lowered my eyes to the ground and, with a shiver suddenly felt self-conscious. I was never self-conscious, normally. Sir’s eyes made me that way.

  Briefly a former exotic dancer—OK, it was only for three weeks to get my transmission fixed (three, long, educational, thrilling, DANGEROUS weeks)—I felt 'on stage' now as I had then. Only now with one scrutinizing viewer whom I wanted to please so badly, and who's presence made my pulse race like a rocket. Wearing barely anything on many a night, I had danced in the same type of 'costume' that I wore now: thong, bra, and heels. Boom. I made pretty good money in those three weeks, and I absolutely reveled in the lascivious, lecherous eyes upon me as I gyrated provocatively on stage. I was treated like a queen by the clients, an absolute queen. It was heavenly. Extraordinary… Exhilarating...

  ...Lucrative.

  It was a shame I had to quit, but it was either that or end up mutilated or dead, or both.

  Unfortunately dancing is an extremely dangerous profession. Not so much danger from the customers—though that existed, too—but from the other women who sucked all their money up their noses, brandished weapons, and swung punches like, well, like lorry drivers. I had to get out of that line of work quickly after I had garnered enough money to get my transmission fixed.

  Truthfully I got enough that first night alone to fix it, but I kept dancing anyway. I liked it. I kept dancing until the night I found out the 'ladies' (and oh those quotes are sorely needed) were plotting to kill me. Literally. Lotta jealously in the 'exotic dancing' world. Innocently enough, I was horning in on their 'territory' too much and taking too many of their 'customers' through no fault of my own. Just doin’ my job, girls. The guys just liked me because I paid attention to them and listened sincerely to their problems. It was my Gloria Steinem psychological experiment and I was the psychologist. I was also clean and sweet, and I wasn’t a phony. I was honest. Some said I reminded them of their sisters, some said of the girl next door. Fortunately on this killing field evening, one of the kindly female bartenders who liked me—saying I was a 'nice lady', and the classiest dancer they’d had in years—pulled me aside and warned me virtually seconds before I exited the floor, that my sister strippers had a 'blanket party' waiting for me in the back room. This allowed me the precious minutes to grab my clothes and hi-tail it out of there, never to return. Otherwise I would be wearing a different face today. One redecorated with razors, if I’d survived. Or had a face left at all.

  See? I told you pretty women have it rough. And you only felt sorry for the plain ones.

  Now, beneath my Owner�
��s scrutiny alone, I squirmed. I tossed a skittish glance at the pale, yellowish light emanating from far across the shadowy lot. It would afford an early-warning system of sorts, of anyone approaching within half a block of our little corner of the world. Telltale shadows would slither out from under the truck and around the trailers long before anyone could come close enough to hear. At least that was the plan.

  I shifted position in the tall heels and awkwardly struck a pose. The five extra pounds I had picked up since Christmas poked out amply over top of my bra. My ass had got a little of that extra, too. I always did have a full, round ass, and now it was just a little rounder. I tried to imagine what I looked like, poised against my dark car: white skin, small waist, long stockinged legs in their spikes, prominent ass poking out behind, and pale tits bulging out over my black bra. Waif-like, I’m sure. Like Little Orphan Annie in heat. There, all exposed and flaunted in the raw of the night, crickets fast chirping the temperature, and el trabajador just barely out of sight.

  My waiting was quickly over. Sir stepped down from the truck and his testosterone strode right for me. He clutched a handful of hair and led me to the hood of the car.

  “Spread those cheeks,” was his only comment.

  I squeaked a little at the still hot metallic hood beneath my chest, and reached to do what he’d said.

  He rubbed the head of his dick momentarily against my slippery cunt and then plunged in, full length and full throttle. I gasped. Oh god, it felt so damn good. He worked it and pounded me against the car while I struggled to maintain my spread-legged balance. We were rocking the car again. The antenna was whipping back and forth in rhythm like a fishing pole. I turned my head toward the yellow glimmering light that barely made it to the back of the truck. I sighed with satisfaction and abandon. What would my Owner do if someone were suddenly to appear around that corner? The proper and expedient thing, I was sure. Anyway, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at that moment but that I was getting royally fucked.

  I felt his rough, but controlled hands tugging at my bra, raising it over my shoulder blades. I rose in compliance and he continued to pull it up over my breasts in the front. I slipped it over my head and let it lay on the hood beside me. Sir directed me back down on the hot metal hood, breasts pressed hard against it, his hand holding me there to allow my flesh fully to appreciate the still-sizzling heat. The rocking of the car, the temperature, and the rapid, innocent chirping of the crickets all lent a bizarre quality to the moment. I could feel my hips being bruised by the pelvic bones as Sir pounded me against the unforgiving metal.

  He pulled out and backed away.

  “Get down,” he murmured.

  I squatted.

  “Down on all fours,” he clarified.

  I hesitated, considering my hose.

  “All the way down!” he reiterated.

  I dropped.

  The concrete lot was rough and strewn with bits of gravel and glass. It dug into my knees and I whimpered.

  His proffered dick in my mouth was hard and tasted of my own juices. It tasted good. He let me suck him for just a moment.

  “Turn around,” I heard him growl.

  I whimpered again. I knew, or thought I knew what was coming next. But I was wrong. Instead of sodomy, the pain of the rod sliced across my ass cheeks just as I glanced over my shoulder to see my Owner raising the instrument even higher in the air. I braced for the blow, which hurt like unbelievable hell. I tried to move forward on my knees, but the ground glass and gravel hurt too badly. I knew I was ruining my hose. I also knew I was bloodying my knees. Still, I scooted to crawl away the instant the next rapid-fire welts blazed across my bare, raised ass.

  “Please, Sir! Someone will hear me! I can’t keep quiet!” I begged, gasping for breath.

  “Raise that ass!” He ordered, gearing up for another round.

  I could do nothing but bite my lip and hold my ass for him. It was his pleasure, after all. I knew better than to deny Sir his pleasure.

  “What are you here for?” He growled.

  I remember the first time I was asked that question, so many years before: 'What are you here for?'

  'For your pleasure,' I had answered then, and was rewarded with a beaming grin.

  'Very good,' he’d said, as we pulled out of the convenience store lot, heading, unbeknownst to me, on our way to a rendezvous with Johnny at the House. 'Very good,' he had reiterated. 'You’re here for my pleasure and for my pleasure only.'

  So I replied to the question asked many times since: “For your pleasure, Sir.”

  He punctuated my statement for me with a tremendous welt. I squealed beneath tight lips.

  “Get up,” he ordered under his breath.

  I raised, my knees now aching and raw.

  “Lay over the car,” he directed. “On your back.”

  I obeyed whimpering, lowering on the still hot hood. “Put your heels up on the car,” he continued, steadily approaching me, his completely naked, perfect body huge and rippling in the dim light. “Spread those knees.”

  I complied, and then it dawned on me what he was planning.

  I gasped. My knees automatically snapped together.

  “Open those knees!” He spat, angrily.

  I cringed and whimpered softly. Reluctantly I opened.

  “Wide!” He barked.

  “Yes, Sir,” I whined and let my doubled knees fall open all the way.

  He raised his hand, and I watched him raise it... Oh, no...

  He paused ever so slightly and then let the rod fly. The first welt across my inner thigh was not the horror that it could have been, but I jerked and gasped, and waited for the next. It came immediately, and it was a horror. Though not nearly as hard as he was capable of delivering, the welts nonetheless were gut wrenching; especially in rapid succession and in lieu of how badly he wanted to welt me and was holding back, either out of mercy or out of concern for el hombre working a few hundred yards away. The fear of that—of my knowing what he could do—made the anticipation before he struck so much worse. In my agony I fantasized a bizarre situation in which my Owner would actually give me to the loading workers if they were to wander over.

  I believe he would have. With rubbers, of course. And then whipped me soundly afterwards for enjoying getting fucked by a bunch of sweaty, mundane men.

  A number of lightning strikes later—several for which I held my breath as my Owner took careful aim to welt only my pussy lips and not my clit had I moved—and I was allowed to get down.

  Gasping and heaving little moaning cries I wiggled my aching body against the car.

  “Take off those heels and turn around,” he murmured hoarsely.

  Still heaving, I quickly slipped them off.

  He pushed my naked breasts down once again and, in anticipation, I reached back to open my cheeks for him with my own hands.

  This time he only rubbed the head of his dick a moment, smearing the sloppy wetness all around my spread crack. He pressed against my asshole and I tried to relax. The pressure increased and suddenly the opening relented as his swollen, wet head popped in. I gasped anew. He didn’t hold back at all, and shoved the entire length of his thick, rock-hard shaft deep into my rectum. I had nowhere to retreat pinned against the hard metal car, and was only permitted to whimper and moan. I accepted the fucking, deep, hard, and merciless and the pleasure quickly swelled within me, like his long, hard cock inside my soft, slippery, squeezing asshole.

  He pumped, reamed, and battered my tight, discolored hole until he decided to pull himself out.

  “Get yourself together and get back inside the truck,” he breathed, stepping aside for me to scurry to obey him.

  I picked up my cast-off bra and the shoes, and stretched my aching legs and scratched knees the few feet to the steps of the truck.

  I tried to hurry, but my head was swimming from the ordeal, and I felt the crack of the rod across my butt cheeks as I too-slowly climbed. I squealed, tossed my things into the seat and
scrambled up to the tune of yet another welt.

  Once inside Sir came for my mouth. I was always scrupulously clean from my preparation rituals and I now tasted only him. He fucked my ass and cunt and finished in my mouth, huge copious squirts of cum, thick, salty, and delicious.

  My ride home that night, as Sir escorted me to my street and drove on, was marked by wiggling, squirming, and touching myself as I drove. I knew Sir could see me working my clit from his vantage point high in his truck.

  My dreams as I snuggled into my bed on that hot sweltering night were amazing, as were the rest of my cums.

  23—Now THIS...Is Bondage

  “You get crossways o’ me and you’ll think a thousand o’ brick had fell on ya.”

  My message light was flashing on my work phone. I had just walked back into the office from some inane nonsense, the sole purpose of which was to feed the fat, corpulent queen termite and her bloated suck-ass drones. Corporate Rock. How I hated it. Made the ‘tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow — from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time’, seem like a cakewalk. I shuddered. How good I had become at pretending. Soon, if I was lucky, I was to join this resident evil permanently. I shuddered again. But what else can one do? Life must go on and one must eat. Soon I would become a drone, just like them. Ugh. No! Never!

  Never!

  Yeah, that’s what always got me in trouble. Nonconformity. I just march to the ass-beat of a different drummer.

  I picked up the phone and punched the voice-mail button. Marvelous! It was him. For now and all the while I was with him on the phone I dwelt in another existence. One that made infinitely more sense and was never phony. An existence that was as real as pain could be. You can’t get more real than that. Submission is the only way to be free, to find the purity in your soul. Submit. Give yourself completely.