Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  There was little purity in these corporate drones’ souls, if indeed they even had souls. Long ago most of them had sold theirs to the greedy, ravenous, fat, gaping-mouthed slug of an enterprise that turned eyes into hollow, empty holes by which rotting brains were drained. All the drones stank of cowardice and greed. These sheeple were well practiced at backstabbing hypocrisy. The company wallowed in dirty dealing and duping the trusting, sheep of a public in every way they could. We used to pass the acres of meticulously manicured and vacuumed, yes, vacuumed grounds and call it the 'Great Evil'. I couldn’t believe I was now part of it. Well, nearly so. A few more days of waiting. One more background check.

  But for a moment it wasn’t about them. It was about him.

  Him.

  His message, from minutes before, told me he’d be calling back shortly. I smiled and breathed a cleansing sigh with eyes closed against the world. The prudes, the fundamentalists, the corporate vampires. Believe me, I was in the thick of one of the biggest corporate vampires in the world. Honesty? Integrity? Ha. They didn’t know the meaning of the words. What in the hell was I doing there? Oh, well. Everybody’s got to be somewhere.

  His second call came as I was on the phone. More flashing. But it was just as well. It was impossible to talk around the office. He left me directions and instructions, which I know he intended to elicit exactly the response it did. I believed from his dialog and demeanor, that someone—someone other than just us—would be involved in our escapades that night. It filled me with the pervasive wonder and fear. Always that push/pull. Always the duplicitous electric current that both shocked and soothed at the same time. Ooo! It was completely delicious. I tingled with excitement. I would rather just be with him, but I wanted to please him in any way I could. If that meant submitting to another man fucking me and even whipping me, I gladly would.

  I dreamily went back to work.

  Seven o’clock. I was to be there at seven o’clock. Far up the expressway. With a little luck I would make it on time.

  I did.

  I drove through two of the worst rain-squalls imaginable that first loomed ahead like snow banks then passed quickly by. The beating torrents slowed traffic to a crawl, but still I made it, somehow. Odd. Fate.

  I was to meet him beside a huge shopping center. I turned at a peripheral filling station, coasted over to his truck and stepped out into the pouring rain. With my black, opaque hose and short red dress I undoubtedly looked like a melting cherry Popsicle. I had a towel with me. I opened his door and hauled myself inside.

  Sir grinned. I guess I looked a little drowned.

  “You got my message?” He spoke quietly.

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, dabbing my face and hair with the towel.

  “Get in the back.” He set his hand on the gearshift. “We’ve got to move.”

  Again I shivered, and not from the dampness. The tingle up my spine and the pounding of my heart silenced me completely. Like the proverbial rabbit in the woods, I sat quietly in my fear, extreme adventure so near. Still, nothing had been confirmed. It was all just lurking in my little pea brain. This was anticipation, this buoying on the crest of his wave. So tantalizingly proficient at it, was he. Without even trying, he bent me to his will. His way.

  We jostled and ground across the lot and then to where, I don’t know. Sir glanced back at me in the bunk and jerked the curtain half closed. I was busily shedding the cherry Popsicle look and donning the white satin that he had ordered. White slip, white bra, lace panties and pristine, gleaming white knee socks. As ordered. Topped off with my high, black heels. Cherry Popsicle meets schoolgirl Anime.

  The big truck lurched and bumped through the lot, smoothing out as soon as we hit the road. I could see the sky through the slit in the curtain and the pearlescent rim to the dissipating purple clouds after the turbulent storm. Dwindling drizzle was now easily whisked away by even slowly beating wipers.

  We drove for several long minutes, the expressway pouring out in front of us like a wet ribbon. I relaxed, leaning my back against the velvety wall and stretching out my long Catholic kid-sock covered legs. Sir glanced back and I felt the approval. Though his eyes never changed, I felt it.

  I touched myself. I let my legs fall wide apart and shamelessly massaged my moistening clit. I was where I needed to be, where I was privileged to be; where I would soon be suffering and crying and cumming. Oh, yes, I moaned, cumming.

  I hadn’t the slightest idea where we were when at last the big truck shuddered to a stop and hissed out its release. Sir wiggled the gearshift and pulled some levers and the truck hissed again. It sounded like a viper, the spitting brakes.

  “Is that air-conditioning working back there?” He asked, feeling a vent on the dash.

  I pressed my hand toward the blowing. “It seems cooler than it is hot,” I answered slowly. I couldn’t tell. It felt a little like the outside air. But I hadn’t felt the outside air since the storm. “Maybe,” I hedged.

  Sir had just come through the desert. All the long two thousand miles in two days. Then turned right around and drove back again in another two. One-hundred-and-twenty degrees, no air-conditioning and no sleep. God. What kept this man going? He truly was incredible.

  Now, comparatively speaking this non-desert parched air was cold. It was certainly cool enough for me.

  He’d parked us at the end of a drive facing an open field. The green and bushy wilderness stretched out before our rolling sanctuary, barren and private. Sir opened the curtain all the way and climbed back to join me. He quickly peeled off his shirt and jeans, his physique so marvelous that it took my breath away just like always. That would never change. God, he looked so good my eyes hurt.

  I swooned a little and sat back on my elbows on the bunk.

  Sir reclined with a little sigh and languidly exposed his raising cock to me. I descended on it like the hungry whore I was, sliding my wet lips up and down with a twist at the base and extra suction at the head. With every slurp, the wetness of my mouth increased like the wetness of my crotch. I concentrated on circling the throbbing head with the front and back of my tongue. My Owner began to thrust into my throat, capturing the back of my head in a solid grip. He was gagging me, he knew it. I gasped. All I could do was gulp air between thrusts, try not to panic, and concentrate on pleasing him.

  The thrusts continued only a few minutes. My stomach was retching and he could tell. Sir pulled himself from my mouth. I sat up gasping with my head bowed, wiping the tears from my eyes.

  He was reaching for the bag; the bag which I knew from the sound contained my restraints. He poured them out between us on the bunk, all the clinking clips and chains, and black leather straps and buckles. I knew to ready my hands for him. Sir fastened each wrist restraint quickly, as a man driven. He pulled me around and cinched the belt tightly, wrenching an involuntary gasp from my throat. I squeaked as he buckled the thick restraint around my waist till I wiggled and stretched to gain any kind of comfort. Finally he reached for my ankles, sliding his hand down the full length of each leg before squeezing the ankle and securing their black, leather restraints. Now he worked on the ceiling chain.

  Clipping a length of chain onto the hook of the metal cross bar on the ceiling, which he’d installed just for this purpose, he deftly gathered both my hands behind me. I knew this position. It was formidable. It could only be tolerated for brief stretches of time. I knew, also, the precepts under which I would be let free.

  He casually stretched out around me, head nestling in several stacked pillows against the wall and long legs surrounding me on either side. Beneath my face throbbed his half-hard cock, waiting. I struggled to lower my mouth on it—difficult to do, to encompass him without the use of my hands and especially with the throbbing of his rapidly rising dick. At last I succeeded and began to suck and pleasure him lovingly.

  It didn’t take long till the sucking was accompanied by furtive squeaks and moans. The stretching of my arms to the disciplinary chain was beginnin
g to take its toll; burning and aching with a discomfort I knew would only rapidly increase. I sucked harder. I wanted to please my Master, but I wanted to be free. I knew whining too soon would gain me absolutely no sympathy; I’d been put in this position many times, and on occasion even endured it somewhat nobly.

  Those particular occasions now served as the yard stick of tolerance by which I was customarily measured. But so much qualifies those tolerances: length of the session, length of the chain, your physical condition coming into the session, heat, and the fear which so quickly mounts and works exponentially against you when you begin to panic.

  I twisted my wrists. I always twist my wrists. I know better. It never helps and nearly always makes things worse. But still I struggle. I simply must, you know. It’s just the thing to do when you’re strung up like a clucking chicken ready for plucking. They burned, my twisting wrists, and I winced anew. I whimpered. I whined. I squeaked—all to no avail.

  Sir took a long look at my situation. He was extremely pleased.

  “Now this,” my Owner murmured like a connoisseur, “is bondage.”

  Oh, what a rush. The very word, bondage, made my clit squirt with new wetness. Oh, how I wanted to please him. Bondage. Bondage! BONDAGE.

  That’s what it was all about. We both knew that and totally accepted it. Bondage. I needed to serve my Owner in bondage, give myself submissively to him in all ways and trust him to take me as far as he knew I could go, and then just a little beyond. Yes, always just a little beyond. That’s what it was all about.

  The ache was making the panic swell. I adjusted my position and whimpered some more. He was listening; yes. He was feeding on it! I sucked more, I sucked deeper. I tried to come as far up his dick as I could without losing it from my lips. I knew losing it would earn me welts; quick, unannounced and sharply painful indications of his displeasure. And losing it would also make me have to start over again, if it cost him firmness in his erection. But it was a difficult position to maintain, arms trussed so stiffly up and so high behind my back. I had to concentrate, on him, not on the fiery shoulders and screaming biceps; on him, not on the throbbing wrists and the agonizing ache. But the pain was the crux of the pleasure, was it not? What bondage was all about?

  It was this point at which the pot in my brain would begin to boil, begin to mix and mingle, agitate and swirl. It was at this point that the fine line between pain and pleasure would blur and my brain would slip into a trance. I could feel them, the demons of passion and ecstasy starting to mount, to howl, to claw and gnash to be free, and I could feel their aphrodisiac fusion begin to seep from every pore.

  The tingling buzzing in brain pulsated to the rhythm of my movements on my Owner’s penis. It was exactly like dancing, dancing up on stage in front of a hundred tiny lights and half as many hungry eyes. I always loved dancing and felt so at home there on stage. No one could touch me and yet I could tease the literal hell out of all of those who chose to watch—watch and lust and dream—but not attain.

  The screaming pain increased to a crescendo, waning to coldness as the numbness set in. But my whines and guttural pleas did not wane. They mounted to shrill chirps and squeaks, alternately blending into moans of pleasure. I felt my Owner grow hard in my mouth and I could hardly envelop half of his dick’s length in my jaws. Without free use of my hands I could only slide up and down with my mouth and try to pause just at the tip to keep my lips from losing it. If lost, at the least I would not be given assistance to re-encompass it in my mouth. I would be left to struggle to quickly reclaim his dick and start over, to pleasure him anew from square one.

  I tried to imagine hours in this grueling position. Horrors! But I knew merciful numbness would set in, until the moment of release, that is, when rushing blood into dead limbs would send screams of agony throughout! Oh I did not want to think about that. The endorphin wave I had enjoyed riding had peaked and was now rapidly ebbing. I whimpered again for relief.

  My Owner hesitated, paused, then granted a bit.

  “A few links,” he murmured. “I enjoy this position too much. You look so beautiful in it.”

  Even the few inches drop made me instantly grateful and determined to pleasure him more. I set to work with renewed vigor, vigor that lasted mere minutes before I was aching with exhaustion again, the adrenalin rush was over. This time the panic was overwhelming. I didn’t know how I could stand much more, any more. But I knew… I’d been there before. Times I was sure I couldn’t possibly endure, I did somehow. Usually through just giving up; through not resisting or fighting—which usually came directly after hard resisting and fighting. One last effort, so to speak. It was then, at that point of giving up a sort of floating calm prevailed. Sometimes for a minute, sometimes for several minutes, but never for long.

  Except once.

  Once, I thought I would simply fade away. Maybe I would have, if not suddenly rescued by my ever-vigilant Owner. I had been taken so far that night, had cum so violently seven or eight times to the point of trembling exhaustion, and then restrained upon the spreader-bar and whipped up and down, from ankles to ass over and over again. My voice was nearly gone even before he had strapped me to the bar. My ears were ringing, and I was hearing things as if from very far away.

  “Sir,” I had whispered as he hoisted me up, “I’m weak.” My voice trailed away involuntarily.

  “Good,” he had pronounced, and then began.

  I passively received perhaps thirty or forty seconds of horrible welts when I felt I was going to die. Literally die. In reality I was probably merely passing out. But it felt like death, and suddenly from nowhere I began to fight and struggle for my life with a hysterical, limb-wrenching vengeance. My Owner released me immediately and tried to calm me, to take me in his loving arms. But I fought hysterically and shoved him away, collapsing into a sobbing, blathering heap in the corner, intending to make for the door as soon as I could muster the strength even though buck-naked, because, I’d sobbed, I was not adequate for him. I even remember some worthless woman trying to remove my ring to give it back so he could place it on a new submissive that, I swore, I would find for him. I was totally exhausted. I was hysterical. Nothing mattered but making one last-ditch effort to get through that damned truck door.

  My Owner, never one to panic, listened quietly yet prevented me from exiting the truck, naked or otherwise. I didn’t try hard. Somehow even in my hysterical state I knew trying to get by this Mountain and out that door would have been impossible and a stupid mistake so I simply curled up and sniffled like a child, while he calmly listened and waited.

  I had, according to my Owner, been taken too far. “My fault,” he apologized sincerely. The words I was hearing from him just didn’t compute. How could a god be at fault?

  No, it was simply my inadequacies. I was simply not good enough or deserving enough. I was a weakling, never to be what he ultimately needed. Never. I was beyond reprieve. Hopeless.

  He has never again taken me so high. I suppose that is a frightening occurrence for any owner, fearing he has damaged his property irreparably, physically or emotionally. I’m not sure I wouldn’t have died. It was an unusual night. I had come to my Owner fairly exhausted to begin, and I just had nothing left after the long hours’ ordeal of pain and pleasure, and pleasure and pain.

  But usually the calm would prevail… usually. I had learned not to struggle; to conserve my energy, and not to twist and fight the restraints which only served to put me in a worse predicament and an even more frightening state. If I could just relax I usually could face what followed with some semblance of resolve. However, adrenaline alone was not enough to get me through tonight, not me with the low levels of blood sugar I often experienced. I had petered-out fairly quickly and gotten progressively weaker as the long hours went on, though, ever the trooper, I didn’t let on. Bursts and bursts of adrenaline soon wore me down, whether from pleasure or pain, pure excitement or the fear, it’s all the same, and it all took its toll on my body. Even
the anticipation. Oh god, the anticipation.

  Now tonight the long moments of bondage and its rush drove us further still. My Owner had promised, after all. He’d never take me too high again. I was released from my tedious position and allowed to groan and moan my arms into feeling, quench my shoulder’s awful burning, all to the rhythm of performing continual fellatio. The squeals and deep moans as I experienced relief all fueled my Owner’s fire. He loved the vibrations of my guttural sounds vibrating against his penis head. In fact if I didn’t take him fully and far into my throat as I made the sounds he would whip me as I sucked him. I knew better. Though sometimes I would forget.

  He did not.

  I was allowed to pleasure him for several long minutes before he announced that I was to put on my shoes and follow him outside.

  He donned his jeans and stepped out. I struggled to hurry, but I could barely locate my tall black heels in the dimness of the moonlight shining in. Sir was waiting on me for a full minute before I managed to pull myself through the front seats and scoot over to the door. I lowered myself down with tenuous arms, as always, careful to avoid the grid of the metal steps so my heels would not get stuck there.

  He was leaning against my car, parked a few feet from his truck. I quickly went to him and dropped to my knees with just the slightest touch of his hand on my shoulder. I took him in my mouth and began my sucking anew. It was only a few minutes till Sir raised me and laid me over the front of my car. I opened my long legs and waited for where he was going to fuck me.

  “Spread ‘em,” he commanded.

  I reached both hands behind and complied, prying my ass cheeks as wide as I could. I soon it was evident where he was aiming. I felt the sting of my ass hole being forced. I stiffened just a little, then tried to relax. I felt the full length of him slide in as he pounded my hips unmercifully against the car. Then he paused and pulled my breasts out over the top of my bra, pushing them directly against the hot metal, a command performance of the pleasure he had enjoyed before. The heat was exhilarating. He pushed my breasts down hard, to allow me the full experience on my tender tits. He held me there with a firm hand on my back while he pounded me as hard as he could. I felt new depths open as his hard dick plowed deeper and deeper. There was not one inch I could move, and the whole car rocked in time with us in its familiar rhythm.