Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir

by Janice Collins

  Be it from the police or just the 'family police', any minute I expected to have a dog sicced on me, a spotlight trained on me, or the red dot of a laser of death centered on my forehead by Brunhilda.

  But, no. None of the above happened.

  So I just kept moving.

  The old Depeche Mode song played in my head '... by putting one foot in front of the other, got to move on sometime...'

  I was so cavalier I could actually think of songs!

  Now near the intersection, I crossed the street. This time, instead of stupidly taking the circuitous route around the little cemetery—down the public road, around the whole fence line, and struggling on the treacherous bank—to where my van was parked, this time, as Sir had told me, I ducked right into the cemetery’s driveway as I crossed the intersection. Wow, easy peazy. Why hadn’t I seen this gravel road before? It directly bisected the cemetery and led straight to my waiting car in a flash. It saved me ten extra minutes!

  Piece of cake, I thought. My breath was coming in short, quiet heaves now. I was nearly there! What a rush! I nearly orgasmed…again.

  A huge cedar bush lurked just to my right. A perfect spot for the monsters that dwell in such old cemeteries to ambush an innocent-yet-not-so-innocent passerby such as myself as she tripped merrily on her way to her waiting van post illicit tryst. I inched bravely closer. Nope, no monsters there. Big relief.

  Inexplicably, a wave of disquiet washed over me. What if my van wasn’t there? What if it’d been towed in the two-and-a-half-hours that I had been rockin’ and rollin’ in Valhalla? It was a distinct possibility, and one that had not yet been disproved. I held my breath on this dark, cloudy, moonless night, straining my eyes to see... to see...

  The mists swirled around my feet like in every vampire movie ever made...

  As my heroine, Scarlet O’Hara had strained her eyes in the mists to see her beloved Tara appear out of the parting shadows into the moonlight, I saw my own Tara, my beautiful white van, materializing from the vapors and blackness like an angel’s chariot before my eyes. THANK GOD!

  What a relief to see that van spring up! I was so glad to see her, patiently waiting, waiting in the somber dimness beside the stone mausoleum where I had parked her. I scurried faster. WHEW! It hadn’t been towed!

  I hit my key fob as I approached and dutifully the driver’s side door unlatched and the courtesy light (I could do without its courtesy now) switched on. I hastened to open the door and hop inside. Of course, as it is with these oh-so-helpful cars and their fancy accoutrements, all the interior lights came flooding on, and of course stayed on for 90 seconds before gently easing off. Just long enough for Jimmy Joe or Brunhilda who was watching to dial up the local constabulary and send their sirens a-wailing. I turned the key as soon as I could to kill the lights, and dialed my Owner’s number as instructed as the shadows of the dimming lights washed over me. Shifting into gear, darkness now hiding me, I slowly let my van inch out like a skulking ninja. No headlights yet.

  Sir answered and sounded cool, though I, of course, was hyper. Try as I might to be otherwise, I was wired. I made myself drive slowly and carefully so I wouldn’t spin out or hit Aunt Martha’s headstone. Wouldn’t do to desecrate a grave at this point; I was nearly home free.

  As I approached the exit, (where I should have entered in the first place) I at last switched on the headlights. It was now or never, and I was more than ready to make my getaway. Oh, how my heart was pounding. Patience, patience.

  If only the cars would stop coming! Tick, tick, tick... I was itching to move. Finally after four cars and what felt like an eternity it was my turn to pull out. E-a-s-e-y, now. No time to wake Brunhilda by getting squirrelly and spitting gravel.

  I veered left and gently pressed down the pedal. I didn’t look around, didn’t pass go, or collect $200. I just sailed on.

  Still on the phone with my Owner, I informed him of my every move. Only when I got to the stop light a quarter mile away did I tell him that I thought that I had actually made it. WOW! More rushes! Goose bumps down the spine!

  “I think I’ve made it!” I squealed with utter joy. “I think we pulled it off!”

  “Where are you now?” He asked, smooth as silk.

  “Turning the corner into the park” I said, with a tremendous current of relief. Then, “Oh, I’m speeding! I’ve got to slow down! No sense getting caught now!” I was so happy I was giddy.

  We spoke until I reached the road to turn into town, and knew at that point that we were safe. I was tingling all the way home.

  What a great night!

  What a wonderful, incredible, dangerous, GREAT night.

  29—Uh Oh…

  “If you’ve got ‘em by the balls their hearts and minds will follow…”

  There is a great deal of satisfaction in getting by with something. There is a great deal of satisfaction in getting by with something with so much at stake.

  But to pull off a stunt like we just did after having the tremendous sexual thrill that at least I did is le pièce de résistance of les pièce de résistance. It was HELLACIOUS!!

  We did it, YES WE DID!

  ...but oh my god, just barely. I messaged Sir as soon as I got home that night. Here’s what he messaged back:

  “After hanging up I took Midnight out one more time before going in. Two cops... one at the neighbor’s house next to the cemetery and one with a spotlight looking at the (cemetery) church. It was a matter of minutes and they were there. I’ll get the whole story tomorrow from my cousin.”

  From his cousin the next day:

  “I just talked to my cousin and got the whole story. The guy that lives next to the cemetery saw headlights over there late at night and thought someone was breaking into, or already had broken into the church, so he called the police. No plate number as they drove past before he could get outside. The police will now be keeping a closer eye on the place.”

  Oh my god.

  How close I came.

  How extremely, scary close I came.

  Giggle... Deliciousness.

  I couldn’t wait to do it again, only better. And sure as hell not parking in the cemetery next time!

  30—We’re WHERE...Again?

  “Life’s tough…it’s tougher when you’re stupid.”

  “Are you able to come to me tonight?”

  Sir was summoning me again. Again...? To the same spot where we had created Nirvana two weeks before...? Where I had almost gotten CAUGHT by the POLICE? What in the world???

  Of course I would come.

  Gladly.

  Immediately if not sooner.

  I left within twenty minutes of his call. I even drove the expressway in my now iffy van. It had developed at least one shaky tie rod. The mechanic had just given it his blessing as being 'not that bad', so I was ready to fly. And fly I did.

  This time I was to park in the nearby ball fields, NO cemetery. That was to be avoided like the plague. Games at the lighted fields regularly went on until after midnight, so parking in one of the several huge lots would provide a plethora of coverage for my nondescript little van.

  Instructions were:

  1.) Bring the 'note of auto trouble' for my window

  2.) Pull in the first driveway at the ball fields and call him immediately

  3.) Walk down the street, cross into the pine trees at the house next to his, transverse up THAT DRIVEWAY(!), and cross diagonally to the second set of pine trees (his), and into his waiting clutches. Easy, right?

  4.) Oh, and not to dress so much like a burglar this time.

  Sir had worked out a better plan, one of not being on his driveway at all. Yes, of course this was going to work. Except…

  I was good on one, two, and four. Number three was where it got a little dicey. Oh hell, a little dicey my ass, of course I just plain blew it... who could expect anything less from me? It all went fine up till '3'…

  This time I dressed in my black jeans, but with a green pullover, short-sleeve
d and normal looking. Underneath I wore black thigh-hi’s with lacy tops and a black bra. Nothing more, nothing less. Normal, right? I hoped I was good to go.

  I arrived in the field and pulled up beside a port-o-let. The place where he had told me to park—the spot nearest the crossroad—was all but abandoned. With games going on further over in other fields I had the gravel lot all to myself. So far, so good.

  I shut off the engine, cut the headlights (there was the courtesy light thing again), and picked up my cell to call.

  At the same time I got my pre-hand-written emergency sign out and pulled off some tape. Of course the tape wouldn’t stick to the window. I pulled off more tape. I finally ended up propping the sign up with my makeup bag and a paper cup. Looked pretty sturdy.

  “Start walking... ” was my Owner’s order.

  I started walking. This time I had clearance to bring my purse, because a woman in distress in a car would never start down the road without her purse. Sir agreed.

  The trek was nice; smooth compared to the former one by the whizzing highway. This time I could walk beneath the trees softly illuminated by the overhead ballpark lights far enough away to hide me, yet close enough to brighten my path just a little. So no stepping on snakes, or frogs, or into holes. At least hopefully not. Squeals from stepping on slithering snakes are mandatory.

  Past the lighted sign and across the side street. Now the tricky part, navigating the highway without getting hit, not looking like a victim and not becoming one.

  The houses were mostly dark, but some lights were still on here and there. It wasn’t as late as last time. At the stop sign some cars slowed abnormally as if to ask me if I needed help, or maybe to 'help' themselves, but I simply did my usual butch-tough look/walk, mean as a badger, and they departed with all speed. Plus I had my hand on my mace, a big military can which shot thirty feet and supposedly would take down a bear.

  If any bears came near me I was set.

  Onward and upward. I was now crossing the street right in front of the house where the old fuddy-dud bastard who had called the cops on me lived. I tried to act normal—however a woman walking alone at 9:30pm, on a dark, busy highway should normally look. It wouldn’t matter for much longer; there was Sir’s driveway just ahead.

  This is the part that my brain went dead. In the confusion of dodging the whizzing traffic and trying not to rouse old fuddy-duddy’s attention, I trotted proudly across the road to the tall set of pines. They had come up so suddenly. My brain was trying to wave a red flag—hadn’t I been supposed to look for—um—a white house this time? Oh, well, there were those pine trees! Yay!

  Unbeknownst to me I had ROYALLY fucked up... again. Sigh. Moi? Fuck up? Noooo! Go figure.

  In my defense, the driveway in the pitch-black looked totally different coming than going. And there were TWO sets of pine trees. Most important of all, hadn’t I been told that the house next door to Sir’s was totally verboten, a death-trap, off-limits as a possible source of all kinds of hell: mothers, brothers, ghouls sitting on the front porch, alarms, cats and dogs living together; all kinds of crazy avoid-at-all-costs crap.

  But, bottom line—sigh—I got it wrong.

  I was supposed to go that 'avoid-at-all-costs' way THIS time; to go to the FIRST set of pines, proceed out through those pines, across his in-law’s lawn, into HIS pine trees. Instead, I just waltzed out and up Sir’s driveway again, pretty as you please like an idiot, in plain sight AGAIN of anyone and everyone who just might happen to be gazing out a window from any of the adjacent houses, including his own. OK, so I make a lousy commando.

  I ducked into the (wrong) darker gravel driveway, and immediately tried to navigate the (wrong) little hillock there opposite the (wrong) mailbox. No good. My slippery-even-when-not-wet crocs weren’t cooperating in the slightest. It all left me looking a bit like a turtle flopping on ice as I tried to just get a foothold—any foot hold—up this slight grade. I was mortified. Oh Brewster, you’re so cool, I can’t stand it.

  Please refer to #3 from previous. Um-humm. Now it’s clear as a bell!

  No laughing matter... I nearly got us freaking caught.

  I am just too clever by half, and in order for me to follow instructions, apparently I need to have them tattooed on my forehead. I would cop a plea that it’s an artist thing, but Sir doesn’t have it, so it has to be just a plain 'stooped me' thing. …

  So after wallowing around, clawing at the grass trying to right myself in the grand display of several passing car’s headlights, I look up and there stood my Owner, who, even in the dark I could tell was pissed. Suddenly, out of the blue I understood why. As I looked around it dawned on me I was in the wrong place (ya think, Sherlock?). I saw where the correct set of pine trees and correct driveway were—75’ to my right. I melted into a puddle. Oh my goodness was I in trouble.

  No time for apologies or even reproof, just my scurrying to keep up with Sir. This time at least I could see his hand signals, freezing in my tracks and ducking when he showed me his palm. This all was such a fiasco, I was certain everything was going to blow up, REAL fast.

  But...

  ... miraculously...

  ... and no thanks to me...

  ... it didn’t.

  Within sixty seconds we were inside his studio and I was being instructed to 'get up the stairs'. I scrambled.

  Once at the top I could hear my Owner’s admonition.

  “You almost got us caught!”

  Oooo, I was awful. Just awful. I felt like pounding my forehead against the wall to make future instructions stick. But it wouldn’t have helped. My head was thick as a brick. Verbal directions just never seemed to sink in, unless I picture them explicitly like a photo in my head or draw them out on paper. Again, I think that’s why I’m an artist.

  But thankfully, somehow I was here again. WE were here again. It was incredible. Back to the Stairway to Heaven, I made my way up.

  I could sit here in this Upper Room forever. I absolutely swam in the delicious aroma of the oils, bathed in the soft lighting, and reveled in my Owners music and canvases all around. His music was incredible. Ethereal. I’ve never heard anything like it; such intoxicating sounds.

  “Get undressed... ” was his next command as he again screwed the door shut.

  This time I had stashed my purse and cell, but stayed in the little alcove between the great dressers, not behind them. I was quick about removing my jeans, shirt, and crocs. By the time I was done he was coming up the stairs.

  Sir languidly crossed the room and pressed the button on his DVD player: Oh my god! 'Goodbye Horses' “

  How I loved that song from a by-gone era. It shook my head just like it shook the walls. Immediately I went into a dream.

  Jerked back to earth, I saw Sir was standing before me, exposed and ready, and oh god, I was so ready, too. I took my god into my mouth and began making love to his cock. I couldn’t help but dance and sway my body to the hard rhythm of that music that was rocking my soul. It was all such a gift, being here.

  I sucked and swayed thorough several hot songs, one of them 'Wicked Game' by Chris Isaak. I also loved him. It was as if Sir was reading my mind. Oooo, the music, the ambiance, the scent of oils, and Sir.

  Soon Sir sat down on the wooden chair at my side. I spun to accommodate him. I was sucking on him and worshiping his beautiful cock when I sensed his movement. With his right hand he was picking something up. I quivered, but I didn’t hesitate in my pleasuring of him. It was none of my business what the Owner of my soul was retrieving. I discovered it soon enough.

  I felt the crack on my raised ass and knew exactly which instrument it was. In the years of being whipped by my Owner I had come to recognize each instrument without even looking at it, just by the feel and sound it made. I had become an expert on the feel of the tools of discipline, and my Owner, a connoisseur.

  It was the metal ruler. Oh, the potential.

  Several hard cracks and I was sucking harder than ever, writhing lik
e a snake to please him. He laid evenly spaced marks, symmetrically placed on each ass cheek. I could tell now, but I would see this later in several ways.

  I welcomed the sharp pains of old and knew how much worse they could be, and as my Owner had promised, soon would be.

  Suddenly I heard an ancient, familiar command:

  “Open your thighs to me... ”

  I obeyed immediately and without hesitation, turning on my side and spreading. I anticipated what was coming. But, oh, how wrong I was. Instead of the welts that I thought were going to be plastered lovingly on each inner thigh, my wishes and fantasy came true:

  ... my Owner began softly paddling my pussy with the flat of the ruler. O-o-o-o it was delicious; o-o-o-o it was almost more than I could bear.

  But expert that he is, Owner knew just how hard to strike my clit and cunt; he knew uniquely how much exquisite pain/pleasure to deliver. He didn’t let up, and each strike increased in pressure. I lost count at 50. There was infinitely more. I was ready to burst with gratification, sucking him, having my clit so lovingly tortured, just to that edge of the unbearable, but still within my cravings.

  I never closed or even attempted to close my thighs to it. I wanted it; I loved it; my brain was reverberating, and I was near cumming.

  “Sir... ” I struggled, trying to hold back. “Sir... I... ” I stammered, “I’m going to cum, Sir... oooo” my pleas were weakly squeaked as I momentarily paused my sucking of him—a risky business.

  “Go ahead,” he approved, in a lilting voice. That’s all I needed to hear. Immediately my raging cum exploded under the kiss of the ruler, without my even touching myself. I shuddered and shook and bucked as the cum rolled on and on. It was so damn good. He was so generous to allow me this.

  Now it was back to my prime directive: to Obey and Please.

  “Lean against that chair,” he indicated the big, overstuffed one. I swung around and laid my back against it. He was approaching my face, standing with both legs on either side. I knew what was coming next. He’d talked about this.