Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  No, I was not home. I wasn’t anywhere. I was lost.

  I heard the final click, like a gun being dry-fired, and it shot right through my heart.

  That was the last time for five long years that I heard my Owner’s voice… except in my dreams….

  I cried until I collapsed into sleep, and awoke many times to weep bitter tears anew.

  I love you, Sir, my true Sir, and I always will.

  Forgive me.

  It was five long years before I had the chance to discover what had happened that night: a tragedy, and I, a disobedient submissive was entirely to blame. I had gotten my signals wrong and pridefully bolted; I didn’t believe he wanted me anymore. But I had no business gauging signals. I took a vow: '…whatever you wish, M’lord… ' I didn’t honor that vow. Period. The wild horse that was me even after all those years—after all that Sir had given and done to me—still had not been broken.

  He had come looking for me a while after that fateful night—I discovered those many years later—but I had moved, and moved, and moved yet again. I went to The Tree and left messages, but when I went back and they were untouched, it just strengthened my resolve that he didn’t want me anymore. I even told the old neighbors If a tall Commando guy comes looking, please give him my number. He came, yes, but he didn’t ask, and I knew he wouldn’t. A private man such as Sir would likely never have asked them. Maybe my asshole neighbors wouldn’t have told him if he had. Who knows? Most of my old neighbors were serious jerks that were best avoided at all costs.

  So it was easy to convince myself, as I had back at school when I first saw him, that I was a merely a bother, a hindrance to his true desires and I should stay out of his way. In my lame defense I thought I was doing what he wanted.

  I was wrong.

  I was also licking my wounds, feeling sorry for myself, and, again, being terribly prideful. The Abyss that ensued was one of the hardest times I have ever endured, and nothing would ever be right until I was his again. Nothing.

  27—Electronic Daze

  It begins anew...

  Yes, we were separated, yes, it was entirely my fault, and absolutely yes, I bore all the blame.

  Circumstances. Dire and necessary. For personal and safety reasons, I had gone underground. It wasn’t anyone’s fault; Sir and I’d tried to connect, but nonetheless the resulting Abyss, for this submissive was long and hard.

  So now, surfacing—lost and desperate—I threw caution to the wind. I took a head shot of myself, burned the background to pop my pale face, and with wispy smile and green eyes staring up at the man who owned me, placed it on my Internet page under my real name. Ballsy. Those eyes and that smile were speaking only to him: I’m sorry, Sir. Please come and find me, I dare you. I’ll make it all up to you, I promise!

  I got so many comments on that photo. Hundreds and hundreds. It absolutely captivated hundreds of men, who commented and pursued me; who were so certain that they could be whatever I wanted, that they begged to meet me. Unfortunately for them, that was an utter impossibility. For there was only one, and it was, and always would be Sir.

  Oh, it worked. Several pertinent people 'found' me, but they were hardly the one for whom I was looking.

  An old classmate from Photography school popped up via her daughter who’d seen me on there. Also, the man to whom Sir had given me at the Mansion, Mal found me, too. I was so overjoyed to be even that close to my Owner, to solidify my reality and prove that I hadn’t just dreamed it, that I emailed Mal back a number of times, hoping. Mal totally disgusted me, but I was praying that he still had some possible connection to Sir. Unfortunately, Mal informed me, he and Sir had parted ways years ago, right after they’d lost their care-taking job at the Mansion and he and his wife split up.

  Having wrung what info I could from Mal, I quit corresponding with him. He was pressing me hard to meet and 'revive old times'. Yeah right. What old times, you jerk face traitor. You actually think I’d have sex with a man who so totally disrespected my Owner? I laughed at the thought.

  In fact it was because Mal emailed me so many times on that account that I quit checking it regularly. I had grown so weary of his feeble attempts at seducing me, and even 'commanding' me (a real joke) to come to him, that for a week I didn’t open that email at all.

  Then, my god, it happened.

  I had gone online, expecting the same old crap from tiresome Mal and THERE PLAIN AS DAY WAS AN EMAIL FROM MY OWNER. At least—I held my breath—it was POSSIBLY from my Owner! OMG, could it truly be? I clicked and froze...

  OMG.

  OMG.

  Oh. My. God!

  I was shaking in utter shock.

  The name he was using was a clever play on his real name. It was too coincidental to be otherwise. It had to be...

  ... but was it possible? Was it truly him?

  I thought, What would my true Owner like to see? and I donned the highest pair of heels I had, a pair that a silly guy had just bought for me on an expensive date on a gambling boat. (NO sex, not even huggy/kissy, just a wannabee all the way and a never-gonna-be at the same time.) I put my foot in front of my web cam and snapped several pictures, rapid fire. I didn’t even take the time to crop and ‘Shop them. I stuck them straight onto my social media page, raw.

  The answer came back quickly: “Nice shoe. Is there another one?”

  I knew; I knew it had to be him. Though I was still holding my breath, because, after all, it had been a long, long time. Still entertaining the thought (though praying so hard otherwise) that it could simply be some young guy with a coincidental penchant for legs, and the MAJOR coincidentally-same play on names, AND such a descriptive icon that was solely unique to my Sir’s military service, I slapped on more photos of both shoes and both legs and did it super quick.

  Lo and behold, back came the answer, which, to this moment, I still cannot believe:

  Sir’s SELF PORTRAIT!!!!!!!! It was at that second I knew it was HIM.

  I nearly died. My head was throbbing and my heart was pounding so hard I thought I’d literally drop dead of a stroke.

  It was Sir!!!!!!

  It was him, it was him, it was him.

  The portrait was so good. He looked so good. Just like the Sir I knew and loved all these years.

  Tears of joy streamed down my cheeks, and I could not believe what I was reading; what I was seeing. I was literally shaking apart.

  He was talking to me. Sir was actually talking to me, his disobedient and horrible piece of property that had done the unthinkable, refusing her Owner when he called for her, and actually hiding. Running away! Though in all fairness the five-year hiding had nothing to do with Sir. It was purely my rotten circumstances that had driven me under: a crazy admirer who just wouldn’t quit. But all that was taken care of now, the courts had seen to that. It was all behind me now and he was behind bars.

  Shockingly Sir was not condemning me. Of all things he was giving me a pass. I didn’t know whether to be ecstatic or to cry! I wanted to be forgiven so badly, I wanted to explain the unexplainable to him, the 'why' I had done what I’d done in the first place and the 'why' of what came after; to be granted redemption, but in my heart and soul I knew there could be no redemption without first his accompanying punishment.

  But no, he was letting me wallow in it; allowing me such misery that the agonizing punishment I was giving to myself would suffice... for starters.

  For this is the Master of Masters, after all. No one and nothing could ever top his control.

  It progressed; we progressed. I sent him photos as he requested and longed for his comments, favorable or otherwise. I didn’t care; I certainly didn’t deserve anything favorable as dishonorable as I had been, and so I waited, and tried to be obedient to the nth degree for him, my Owner who was maybe, MAYBE, MAYBE taking me back into his fold.

  We were floating on time bubbles of the most delicate and precious kind. It was as if no time had passed between us at all, indeed, no five-year abyss; it was as if
his disobeyed-phone call had come only yesterday, and now I was saying 'hello' to my Owner again the very next day!

  When at last we met, I stared through my new van’s back window across the stretch of green grass and gravel at a tall, wonderful-looking man who was quietly exiting his car. I shivered in uncontrollable excitement as the man led out his dog, opened his trunk and then turned, sizing up the old stone archway that canopied over the road behind him, before taking out a sketchpad and beginning to stroke. I held my breath… was it him?

  I stared out at him in utter shock and disbelief, at the ghost of the man who had just stepped from his car then turned his attention to me. I could now see his face.

  YES! It was him!

  I felt woozy. My head was spinning. I didn’t know what to say or do at that moment as my Owner approached. It was simply a miracle. HE was simply a miracle. The man I thought might be sick or even dead was walking toward me like a Mountain, with all the grace and swagger of the John Wayne I had always admired.

  I didn’t want to appear forward or, heaven help me, as disobedient as the five-year-ago me had been, so I just froze. Like some kind of country bumpkin, untrained in anything in the way of submission, I just sat.

  He looked into my opened window. His eyes, his hair, his John Wayne grin—my Sir. It was all him. I couldn’t stand it another minute. I lowered my face into the seat, bowed before him and hid my eyes, my face flushed in awe.

  We embraced a brief moment, me in utter trembling shock, then together we walked up the road, all in relative silence.

  He set up his easel, exchanged a few pleasantries with his disobedient submissive, and then bid me follow him. Up the little hillside to here and there, and then suddenly, as was his unique style, Sir whisked me into a thicket with a tall stone monument at his back and I was down on my knees before him.

  In my ecstasy, and as was entirely usual for me in his presence, I obliterated everything and everybody within a mile radius. I couldn’t have cared less if the chief of police himself had been standing right beside me, I sucked my Owner with a quivering enthusiasm and yet a reverence that only another prodigal submissive servicing her Owner would know.

  It was a miracle to me that I was there. It was a miracle to me that I was before him once again on my knees. It was a miracle of miracles when he came in my mouth and I tasted the ambrosia that I had not tasted for five, long, dark years.

  Everything was a miracle.

  I was now in heaven.

  28—More Dangerous Than Ever

  “A little bit like jumping out of an airplane while in flight...” —A quote from a great Man—

  So we met, and we met again and again, just like always. It was so great, and when we did Sir snapped picture after picture. I was so honored.

  We messaged and he renewed me; he reclaimed me in no uncertain terms; my place was reiterated, the future was predicted and the horror and terror of it endeared me to him all the more.

  I pictured what he told me, I envisioned what he said. I accepted what he said he was going to do to me, and I embraced it. He gave me one chance to beg out of it; I declined. With trepidation and trembling hands on the keys of my cell phone I declined it. My fate was sealed forever.

  I awaited that pronouncement and realized that I was helpless against it. I was, after all, no longer the owner of my soul. I am not now, nor have I been, for a very long time, anything other than what I have vowed: his masochistic, submissive slave. His solely... his personal whore.

  “... and You can do anything to me that You want, Sir... ” I said.

  “I know,” is all he returned.

  I shivered.

  On this particular night—the night that was to be my redemption—it had rained, but not enough to dampen his plans. I was to wait for his instructions... 'instructions'. There it was again. As always that word alone gave me body-weakening chills.

  I got them—the instructions—but not when I thought I would, so I was caught totally unprepared to rock and roll. Bad girl. Bad, bad girl.

  I had already made the two purchases that he required—the pure white, thick Catholic girl knee socks and the brand-new, brilliant white, lacy bra—and they were waiting patiently in their shopping bag in my bedroom closet. My newly replaced paraphernalia to make myself clean for him waited there too. All in readiness for the moment I received the word that would put the ball in motion.

  I had little-by-little gotten bits and pieces accomplished throughout the day in anticipation of the ten-o’clock hour. But ten-o’clock suddenly became eight-thirty—his call coming an hour-and-a-half early. I jumped up immediately and began getting myself in gear. I made sure I was clean; I made sure my car had lots of gas; and I took only what was necessary for a safe trek.

  His call had been an hour-and-a-half premature and now I was in a panic to make up time, so naturally, clever me managed to turn a thirty-minute drive into over an hour. So much for my genius. God knows why I did it—I guess the squirrel in me?—but I made a snap decision at the last minute when the fork in the road presented itself. I opted for the short cut (?) instead the known quantity. OK, hindsight’s 20/20. It was stupid to gamble on a short cut I had only been on twice—in the daytime—whose twists and turns and now unfamiliar landmarks suddenly mysteriously materialized out of nowhere in the (pitch-black, wet and foggy) suburban streets. This good old 'short cut' could make or break my whole night and the hourglass was quickly draining.

  In the daytime—or at least on a less foggy and rainy night—I might have pulled it off, but I got so turned around I found myself hopelessly lost. I had to flag a guy down for directions. Not cool. As I sped to correct my course, the Oldies station was playing Fleetwood Mac: 'You Make Loving Fun', one of my favorites because it was so true—only Sir made loving and sex so incredibly fun... and crazy… and outrageous—and dangerous. Only Sir. And we were about to rev it up again; open the Pandora’s Box of insanity after five, long, dark years.

  I groped my way down a steep, narrow back road and flew by the seat of my pants finally emerging a couple of miles north of where I had been certain I would come out. Watching the clock hopelessly, I raced on. Unbelievable. I had screwed up directions again. So typical. Would I never change?

  FINALLY, I found myself on the last leg of my journey. I was in familiar territory at last on a road on which he and I had met many times over the years. I plowed straight ahead at the light before flipping my turn signal to turn onto the street from which Sir had dictated I call.

  I called.

  He answered.

  I apologized profusely for my lateness; asking, (praying not, but half-expecting) was it too late? Had I taken just too long for the plan to go through?

  “No,” was his resounding answer. “No. Come ahead, park in the cemetery, start walking to my house and I’ll come down and get you.”

  Oh, did I mention this, dear reader? I was sneaking into the mouth of the Dragon, nay, into the very SOUL and BEATING HEART of the Dragon! Sir was taking me precisely, directly—and unbelievably—into his studio, fifty feet from HIS HOUSE! His. Freaking. House.

  Ever since he told me that, I had been weak with fear. To say I had goose bumps is like calling the Titanic a canoe.

  I was terrified. Number one, 'she' could catch us, and number two, 'she' could catch us and kill us. On the spot, no questions asked, no passing go or collecting anything but hot lead, just death by The German, 'her'. Der Mama. Brunhilda. Kidding but not kidding. You see it in the news all the time. Jealous woman, shotgun, revenge, blood and guts—the whole nine yards. It wouldn’t be pretty and it wouldn’t be fixable. Yes, it had me concerned; but as always, not enough to stay away. My compulsion runneth over.

  All this played out in my head for nights ahead of time, as my dreams tried to sort things out logically. THERE WAS no logic to his outrageous yet seductive insanity.

  Of course, I had to do it, how could I not? The whole forbidden thing was ultimately delicious, and I had wanted to be ther
e in his studio so badly for so long—smelling the oil paints and feeling his hot cock up my ass—that I was willing to risk almost anything; though I hoped 'anything' wouldn’t involve getting shot.

  Nonetheless, here I found myself at 11:30 at night on a misty, blazing hot, summer’s eve in August, parking my car in an old cemetery, and leaving a note in the window: 'Car trouble. Back ASAP!' It was a good plan… sort of.

  I pulled into the tiny, circa 1800’s cemetery, still talking to Sir on my cell. He was coaching me every step of the way. He said cut my lights, I cut my lights. He said put up your little note; I put up my little note. He said “No 'suitcases' like you always bring!”; I abandoned my purse to the back seat floor, retrieving only my billfold with my license in it, 'just in case’'. In case what, I wasn’t sure, but one thing was certain, if stopped by the cops in close proximity to these spooky–and venerable—monuments I’d better be able to explain myself 100% legitimately, or risk a night in the hoosegow.

  I did as I was told, down to closing my door quietly, not slamming it. I tucked my keys, cell, and billfold into my jeans pockets, hiked down the gravel driveway to the far road, and began making my way to my Owner’s house a block-and-a-half away. It’s worth noting that the gravel drive I was on led in the opposite direction of Sir’s, and in retrospect made absolutely no sense whatsoever to be taking at all. In my defense, it was dark and it was the only road I saw; there was another gravel road hidden by the pines that led straight to Shangri-La, but oh well. So it took me ten minutes out of my way. It wasn’t like I was already seriously late or anything.

  Cars whizzed by me from both directions as I stumbled over the narrow, crumbly edge of this dark country lane. Thankfully there were only a few cars, or an unfortunate trip over an unsuspecting root might have propelled me to my untimely demise, saving Brunhilda the trouble. Couldn’t have that. Much more seductive dangers awaited me at the hands of my Owner, up ahead. Thank god none of the cars stopped or even seemed to pay me any notice. They probably thought I was drunk the way I was teetering. Good ruse; I’d have to remember that one.