Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  I slowed down the rhythm a bit to delay his climax and get his attention. “Johnny, seriously, if anything ever happens, I won’t know.” I reiterated. “You’ve got to tell me! You’re the only one that knows about me and where I live. Promise me! Promise me!!!” I was practically screaming in his ear.

  “OK, OK, I promise. I’ll tell you.”

  “Swear on your kids’ lives, Johnny.”

  “OK, I swear.” Johnny was growing impatient and wanting to concentrate on his exploding balls, but I would not be patronized.

  I started pumping hard again. “On. Your. Kids’. Lives. Johnny.” I emphasized each word with a fuck thrust. I knew he was a fearful, if not devout, Catholic. Such a promise would mean something to him and I needed everything I could get.

  “Yeah, on my kids’ lives!” Johnny finally managed hoarsely, sweat dripping from his face. “I swear to tell you if anything happens to Sir!” He stammered with a muted roar as he exploded his full hot load of cum into my cunt. “Arggghhhh!!!” He gargled into my shoulder like a grizzly bear as he collapsed on top of me with a mighty groan, cock still throbbing and pulsing inside me.

  “Oh, man, shit,” he murmured, trembling through a soft chuckle. “Oh, man. That was great.”

  I rolled out from under Johnny immediately. I could see that Sir was more collected now. Head hanging a bit weakly, he was at least standing upright and leaning against Johnny’s truck as he smoked a cigarette with a visibly trembling hand.

  “Was she good?” Sir asked casually, as if nothing had happened to him. I could still hear the wheeze in his lungs. Smokers cough, my white rear. Was everybody blind? “Come here,” he murmured to me as I emerged, pulling my quickly grabbed dress over my head. I walked unsteadily to him. He started to push me gently down on the concrete, then he helped me up again.

  “First get your shoes,” he said quietly. Yes, of course. Sacrilege. I must have on his beloved heels. Even as bad as his attack had been, Sir was ever the consummate lover of feet.

  I rose just as unsteadily and hurriedly retrieved my tall black heels from the floor of the van. Leaning against the door I slipped them on and smoothed my dress one last time.

  Sir beckoned with an outstretched hand. I went to him. This time he indicated that I bend from the waist to service him, not drop to my knees. As limber as I am this was easy. I sucked him there in the driveway in the open with Johnny watching and sipping a beer beside us. I hoped he was the only one watching.

  Sir took my shoulders and turned me around. He bent me over again and his hard dick found its way once more to my slippery cunt, now wet with another man’s cum. Sir pounded me hard for only a few seconds when he let out a pained gasp. He fell back against Johnny’s truck and doubled up again. A muffled moan squeezed from his throat. I spun around.

  ” What’s wrong?” I cried quietly.

  But Sir couldn’t speak. He was clutching his testicles and writhing in obviously agonizing pain.

  “What’s wrong, man?” Johnny asked, puzzled.

  Sir could only whisper, “It’s my balls...” He struggled, “it feels like I’ve been kicked by a goddamned mule!” He hissed.

  “Well, you’re too violent with her. You shouldn’t be so violent!” Johnny proclaimed earnestly watching his lifelong friend arched in pain. It was Johnny’s over-simplified solution to everything; to what he didn’t understand.

  All Sir could do was groan and writhe, unable to stand, or stand still.

  I knew this was something, coming from a war-hardened soldier. No mule had kicked him. His balls weren’t blue from nearly cumming and stopping as far as I knew. This was straight out of left field. What could be wrong?

  “I’ve…” I thought quickly, “…I’ve got this cream for pain, a topical ointment that stops pain on contact. It’s special and expensive. You could try that.”

  I knew about the tumor on his testicle that had progressed from a pea size to a marble in the last year or so, but I doubted that anyone else did. I knew that he had terrible, gut wrenching pains sometimes as he came, but that hadn’t happened in a long time. He never complained. He was as tough as nails.

  “Yeah, OK! Go get it, goddamn! Just go get it,” he squeaked, twisting in agony.

  That definitely wasn’t the Sir I knew. But then, he had just been kicked in the balls by a mule, right?

  I hurried into the house and came back almost instantly with the little white jar of cream made from Emu oil and some other stuff. It was miraculous for pain of any kind—in the bones, in the joints, on arthritis—but I doubted if it was effective on mule-kicked balls. Would it help him? I gently rubbed some on the testicle with the knot.

  “Does it help?” I asked hopefully.

  “Argghhhh, no!” He groaned. “Not at all. No!” His face contorted with the pain.

  “Well, sometimes it takes a few minutes,” I lied. The excellent cream acted instantly; again, on bone tissue, but we were desperate.

  “Well, it’s not doing anything,” he exclaimed through gritted teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Is there anything I can do?” I said sincerely. “Perhaps if you’d have cum.”

  “Oh, god,” Sir moaned, but he was mulling the idea over in his head. He seemed ready to try anything that might give him even a modicum of relief.

  I squatted on my heels and tentatively and gently, without touching him with my hands, began to lick the head of his penis. He didn’t send me away. That at least was a good sign. I continued for several minutes then gently took his cock in my mouth, but only part way down. I progressed slowly on sucking him to the point that he was beginning to stop groaning from pain and start moaning (I hoped) from pleasure. Little moans, just barely audible to him and me, sounds almost like flutters of breathing, but I knew what they were. His dick grew in my mouth. I looked up at him from my squatting position and smiled with my eyes—my mouth being occupied. Like a wounded animal being bandaged, he looked down at me defensively, still expecting the worst. But the worst never came. Slowly, slowly Sir grew firmer and firmer, and slowly, slowly Sir relaxed. I shifted to my knees on the coarse concrete—self-inflicted pain he saw—and felt him stiffen even more. The old Sir, ever the sadist, I, ever the masochist together in our witches brew.

  Then he began to allow himself to enjoy the sucking, the tender licks and pulls up and down. He closed his eyes and let his head tilt back to the star-dotted sky. I felt his balls tighten; I tasted his pre-cum. No one else existed in the world but he and I. No one else was even in our universe. Whoever was watching could feast their eyes. Sir was all that mattered.

  Sir came with a tiny gasp of obvious pain, but pain only for a split second. The cum was revitalizing and he let out a long, bent-up breath with his hands catching him against Johnny’s hood as he fell back. He held this position for several minutes, seeming to bask in the sensation of pure pleasure and no pain.

  A few minutes later Sir straightened and opened his eyes, rejoining the earth. He gave a shudder.

  “Man, that was rough,” he spoke weakly, staring straight into my eyes. His eyes were swollen and glassy.

  “I’m telling you, man, that’s what happens when you’re so violent with her. You can’t do that or it’ll fuck up your balls.” Johnny was serious, but I had to turn away and stifle a laugh. If I had a dollar for every time Sir had come after hours of sexual violence between us I would be rich. That was no more the answer than acknowledging that the sky was black. But I had to respect Johnny for caring.

  Sir seemed no worse for the wear, except for a weakness in his trembling arms and hands, and a cough when he tried to swallow.

  I knew.

  He knew.

  We knew that our times together would begin to be limited from now on unless something righteous intervened. Though as I’ve said, Sir at half speed is better than any other man at triple. Sir was a magic man, after all, and a shaman from another life. He had so much more to give…and take.

  Sir and Johnny got into
the truck and pulled silently out of my driveway. I waved my 'I love you' sign to Sir as he watched.

  Then I gathered my things as always, battened down the hatches of my van, and headed into my sleeping house. I had a quick, warm wash and gratefully climbed into bed.

  25—Once More With Feeling

  “I’ll earn my pay one way or the other...”

  It was him. The phone was ringing and it was him. I was lying in bed on this Saturday morning, and I snatched up the phone the instant I heard his “hello” on the machine.

  “What’re you doin’” I heard the trademark line.

  “Waiting for you to call.” I gleefully gave my trademark answer.

  We spoke briefly and then he made my day:

  “Meet me tonight? At the GC?”

  Of course. Of course I would.

  He instructed me to bring some 'street clothes' to put on in a hurry if need be, shoes and jeans specifically.

  Things had finally returned to ‘normal’—as normal as a BDSM relationship could be—a little more than a year after my life had taken a terrible nosedive. My world had literally collapsed on the eve of the Summer Solstice.

  Meteor Crash

  Midday a year ago I’d been summoned to an evening at the wilderness hideaway of Sir’s uncle, a spot where I’d been taken twice before, albeit hooded. (To this day I have no idea how to get there—the 3 Commando Brigade trained Sir well...) It was rugged acreage that Sir was in the process of taming, carving away the wild. He had single-handedly crafted beautiful stone walls, engineered a stout bridge fording a babbling creek, constructed a fire pit big enough to accommodate entire trees, cleared savage brush, and paved meandering footpaths all through the mossy, green woods. The artistry was so unique it screamed 'Sir’. The idyllic setting for the frontal lobotomizing I was to receive, into which I had been enticed with the promise of all things Celtic, had been a suck fest from the start.

  To begin with, I was late. Secondly, as soon as I climbed in his truck, I was shocked. It had been several long months since I’d last seen Sir, speaking only on the phone and hearing that he was 'not doing so well'. Sir was not a complainer and I’d known he was ill, but my God! My heart stopped. Sir was in trouble.

  I said nothing. What do you say to a skeleton?

  I had parked at the designated spot where he was waiting to transport me the remainder of the way, the last half-mile of which I was obliged to endure below the dash on the floorboard: ‘relatives with prying eyes who sit on their porches in the evenings’. The usual subterfuge; world without end. Although necessary, I guess, it made me feel like Little Orphan Annie.

  It was just the wobbly start to a night that would end so badly.

  I had come to him full of hope and intrigue, ready to serve and please him, happy that he’d allowed me once again into his private world. What a relief, we were going to be alone! It was to be just the two of us at last, spending this beautiful night in the uninhabited backcountry, this huge chunk of boondocks that Sir was readying for his uncle to eventually build a house.

  I had no idea how he’d even had the energy to accomplish all this, so much heavy lifting, hauling, straining. He had looked progressively unwell for a year, after revealing to me one fated night, that he had been ‘unofficially and secretly’ diagnosed with a terrible disease by the head of the military hospital, a trusted friend. The disease was incurable, devastating and fatal.

  It was ALS.

  ALS.

  Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and the spinal cord making its victim unable to grip, or swallow, or, in the end, function at all.

  He had told no one except me of this suspicion—and it was, to me, still just a suspicion because a.) I didn’t want to believe it and b.) he hadn’t completed the final testing which, in its confirmation, also would have been impossible to keep off his permanent record. He wanted to fly under the radar long enough to get a life insurance policy for his family...

  ...and for me.

  The night he told me, as we were parked in his idling semi, I had broken down, gone into shock, and then promptly hidden my head in the sand. After crying my eyes out, I progressed to the next stage: denial. I assured myself that the doctor was wrong. Nothing like this could befall my strong Super Man, and even if it were true he would beat it somehow. He was not going to die on my watch. He was not going to go quietly if I was going to have anything to do with it.

  Well...turns out I wasn’t.

  This night he looked the sickest I had ever seen him. Thin, shoulders like rails, clothes hanging off wire bones, hair in a ponytail—a ponytail—feet in sandals… sandals? My Sir never wore sandals, only thick elite jungle boots; but this man at the Solstice had worn them. Worst of all he was docile, diminished, emotionally weak, and he had to have been near death to have given me the instructions that he finally did that night under the pale moonlight, me in my black, full-length, shimmery, transparent teddy, purchased just for this occasion, happily reiterating my vows to him at his behest as we strolled the fields of newly planted corn. Instructions that I could not—and would not—follow. It wasn’t ennui, Sir was very, very sick. I know now that he was planning things for my own good, but what he asked that night—for me—was impossible to do. Sir regretted giving me those instructions later, and ultimately was glad his scorpion did NOT obey.

  It was one of the lowest points in my entire life. It felt like I was being swallowed by a big, black hole.

  Instructions

  He had been clear on the phone: I had to be there before midnight. I was late (what else was new?) so the hour of ushering in the Solstice proper had officially expired by the time I’d arrived. I’d missed it. It was a big deal to my Owner. I’d only missed it by ten minutes, but to Sir, it might as well have been days. I think I’d messed things up for him and something he was trying to conjure. I don’t know. I’ll never know because his 'Instructions' brain-fucked me so badly I didn’t ask, and I’ve never mentioned it again to this day.

  When we pulled up I could hear haunting strains of lovely Celtic music drifting from a CD player sitting on the picnic table in a clearing in the woods. It made me smile. But it was short lived. Sir walked ahead of me and snapped it off. The magic sucked back in the bottle like a door slamming in my face. It was so beautiful, that music. I wish he would have kept it playing, but...

  Instead he sat down on the wooden bench as I approached, and held out a hand. He was sitting there cross-legged...(CROSS-LEGGED? Since when did my Sir ever cross his legs?). Resting his arms on either side of his thin thighs and knobby knees poking out of khaki shorts...(yep, shorts, another first) Sir quietly told me remove my denim skirt and silky blouse. Earlier as we drove, I had coquettishly teased him about the sheer body stocking that I was wearing, hoping to get a rise out of him, but nope, my hopes fell flat. Hmmm. That wasn’t like my 'regular' Sir at all. Ordinarily he’d have been super hot about my sultry curves being enveloped head to toe in silky, see-through nylon and lace, tits bobbing, nipples dusky and pink just under the thin gauze like a Vargas sketch. Instead, upon seeing it now that I’d demurely peeled off my clothes, he gave a weak smile, and, conscious of my anticipation, nodded, saying it was 'nice'.

  'Nice...?'

  OK, he was sick, but it was at this point I knew he was holding back something really bad...

  I shivered at the crap obviously weighing on his mind. It was almost exploding, like Minerva through his temples. He rose and held out a hand again, this time to have me take a walk with him across the black cornfield. He was putting it off.

  Fine by me, because I sure as hell didn’t want to hear what I sensed he was going to say. I wanted not to know the obvious. So I was glad when we walked for five minutes in utter silence.

  It was so awful. My tall Owner was now as frail as a ghost, and when a light breeze blew open his unbuttoned shirt exposing his bare chest to the moonlight, I could count his ribs. I shivered
at the atrocity of his gauntness. Was this what Lou Gehrig’s Disease was supposed to do? Wither a man’s flesh to bone? He didn’t seem uncoordinated. He didn’t seem to have any trouble griping, walking, or talking at all. What the hell was going on?

  It was a warm evening, it should have been pleasant, but the magic had chilled, and there was acid in the air. Waves of stars dotted the indigo sky, but instead of bewitching, the canopy smothered us. It was dull. Like a plug had been pulled and all the beauty had drained out.

  While I stumbled along over the clods of dirt—damn heels—Sir did just fine, even in his sandals. For a man with ALS he didn’t have nearly as much trouble as I did.

  We had walked the entire field and back in silence when Sir suddenly piped up.

  “Remember the vow you made me...at the House long ago?”

  “Of course, Sir!” My heart sang. I would never forget it.

  “Repeat it to me now...”

  THIS I could handle. I began in utter joy to recite it, until I got to the ‘...to do with as you wish...' At that instant I looked up and locked eyes with Sir’s, and my voice trailed away to nothing. I whispered the last few words that stuck in my throat like cold caramel “...for as long as you wish...M’Lord...”

  Sir knew I’d seen them...his guilty eyes. He knew. I knew. We both knew.

  He continued on nonetheless, ever the trooper. “You remember when you made that vow to me?” He said hoarsely.

  “Yes...Sir...” I shivered looking down, still trotting along. The joy drained out of me.

  “It was sacred, that vow. And I’m holding you to it now.” He said, trying to sound tough. It wasn’t working.

  Of course it was sacred. Of course it was. I had written that vow in a tiny handmade, leather-bound book, embossed with the Forever ring he’d placed on my finger, and recited it to him as I knelt before him in the Upper Room of the House. Sir had been blown away.