I lifted the restraints and the clink of their metal 'o' rings propelled me back to the House and to the beloved terror of its original Upper Room. I swooned as I drew in the scent of the leather of my collar and waist belt, a scent of animal and lust; the leathers stiff with perspiration—my perspiration. My clit tingled uncontrollably as I glided fragile fingertips over the corded cloth of my ankle restraints. But the best of all: my Bracelets, oh, my beautiful Bracelets—salvaged from the Boards which Sir had ordered burned as punishment for a disobedience long ago—were there, black and ominous and beautiful in all their hammer-marked glory, and the clinking metal song of them in my hands made me joyously weak.
I took them back upstairs to the bedroom where I carefully and reverently lay every one upon the bed. One by one, the restraints revealed their silent secrets, the wrist, ankle, neck, and waist restraints, and my collar—thick, black, and small. I heard the clink of the clips, felt the nylon, and shuffled the shiny silver buckles in my hands. It made me dizzy. I tried on the waist restraint. It still fit, but barely. Several inches needed yet to be pared to match the skinny girl’s figure of twenty years ago. I would not relent.
I gathered them together in readiness for the evening. I was to be there before midnight, and as the hour approached, and with so many things getting in the way, I had to drive like a bat out of hell to try to make it.
I didn’t.
It was close, but no cigar. I actually pulled up a few minutes before midnight, but by the time I parked and put up my sign, the witching hour was upon us. I tried to pretend not to think exactly what was in store, but the command for the restraints made me shiver, and I knew. I knew.
I parked, sign at the ready pulled from its hiding place in the glove box. I was wearing the dress that my Owner had ordered, tucked into black jeans. I was bringing a bag which held all of my restraints, my newest tall, black heels, and both dildos in readiness for photos that he told me he wanted to make. I had slathered on the makeup, as I do when I’m modeling, but as I drew closer on the highway, I rubbed most of it off. What was I thinking, after all? It wasn’t my face that he was going to capture—or whip, or use—except for my mouth, that is.
Red lipstick. Yes, it stayed.
As I had made the last turn onto his street, still driving, I retrieved the two capsules of vitamin E that I always carried with me to lubricate instead of the awful tube of jell that both of us abhorred. Vitamin E worked beautifully, lasted a long time, and was ultimately good for the delicate skin. I bit and squeezed a capsule inside my cunt, stroked my clit, and repeated the process for my ass. I finished just in time to make the turn into the dark, empty ball fields and re-zip.
Now, parked, I had gathered everything together, had posted my 'car trouble' sign, and was hustling across the field, trying to muffle the noise the clinking restraint buckles were making.
I was finally getting the hang of it. It was getting to be old-hat to walk straight to the correct yard, to the correct set of pine trees, across the correct lawn, and into the waiting arms of my Owner. There at last Sir took the little plastic bag of restraints from me and deftly led me along... up the short drive, past the pale light drifting from his house, past the trucks perennially parked at the front of the studio, and silently into the maul of the Beast.
Once inside, my Owner was All Power and Force. He gave the familiar order; I scrambled to the loft, and immediately began pulling off my jeans. Underneath I had on the black stockings he had ordered this time.
I stashed my clothes in the usual place behind the dresser, then sat naked and waiting at the top of the stairs while he readied the door, locking, bolting, securing it well with the screw gun. So clever.
Oh how my heart throbbed and my body tingled as I heard the soft padding of his feet nearing the Stairway to Heaven. Quietly he ascended them, and when the top of his head was visible I lowered mine. It didn’t do to look too deeply into the glorious face of my Master.
The times in this Upper Room were unfathomable. Music of the most beautiful sort—the most poignant, the most endearing, most sensual and glorious tones I’d ever heard on the planet—he played for us there. Sounds that I will never hear anywhere else, for the music Sir chose, from the myriad stacks of CD’s and DVD’s lining his shelves, was irreplaceable, some literally—not virtually—impossible to find anymore. His collection was remarkable and unique and otherworldly. How I loved his music. How it filled me with joy; some with overwhelming sadness; others with terror beyond words. I’ve heard his music in faraway dreams as I lay sleeping on the floor of his Upper Room while he played 'lullaby’s' for me after a whipping; I’ve coasted over ancient ruins to Celtic drums pounding in my slumbering head. I’ve heard the songs as I was bent in submission to his whip, and again as I lay in rapture after, tears of ecstasy flowing down my face.
But tonight there was no music; there was no whip. Tonight there was to be only ritual.
First, there in the Upper Room, on the rug of many colors, beneath the heavily curtained, floor-to-ceiling windows, my Owner took his pleasure with me. He took his time. He wove his will and spun his powerful magic. I was just the poor player, strutting and fretting her hour upon the stage, the catalyst for what we hoped would be. I usually held on and clawed for dear life at every turn and twist; every bruising welt delivered on quivering skin, but there would be no bruising tonight; no welts. I usually opened thigh and mouth; opened my soul to receive his mighty pain offerings, but not tonight. Tonight, Sir told me I was there for something else.
I may have queered the deal as late as I was, but perhaps it would work nonetheless?
I sat on the floor, on the spot to which he pointed as he carefully fastened the restraints of eld on each wrist, on each ankle; beautiful black and familiar. They felt so good. Then he slipped the collar around my neck and clipped a leash to it. Finally, having accomplished it all, Sir surveyed his property as she sat in the dim light on the floor, and, satisfied, he lovingly stroked her head.
Good bitch.
I stole a look up at him from my place at his feet. He had donned his cloak. He was so powerful in his long, dark robe, commanding such a stunning presence.
I was given my instructions, cautioned into silence again, and then waltzed out into the cold night air. Naked, I stood shivering both from the chill and the from thrill rippling down my spine. I had goose bumps, and my nipples stood rock hard, like ripe little plums begging to be bit.
Sir quietly closed and locked the studio door, and then turned his attention to me. Standing staunch still in a pose like Dracula, he opened his his large, dark cloak, and wrapped his trembling submissive in it, both for warmth and to conceal her from prying eyes. Together we slowly walked. We were so near to his house now—mere feet away I knew—I had to be very good. I stumbled as he guided me in silence. I couldn’t fathom where he was taking me—off to the woods? Inside his cloak I couldn’t see a thing. I could only feel his body heat, and his throbbing, hard cock pressed against the top of ass as I faced away from him. My heart was pounding out of my chest. The incredible excitement. The electricity!
“Very quiet,” he murmured barely audibly, “not one sound.” He squeezed my shoulders in warning. “Not one sound; do you understand?”
I did understand. I nodded my compliance.
My temples were hammering. This promised to be perhaps the strangest adventure yet. I felt like bolting, but a powerful magnet held me there. The intensity was insane.
Slowly we made our way along a stone path. I could feel its cold unevenness beneath my creeping little cat feet. The moss between the stones was soft and moist, like bits of velvet under my toes as I padded along. At my back Sir’s intense heat emanated in waves as he sheltered me under his cloak, the cloak that simultaneously protected me and sealed the magic, too. There was magic. Oh yes. There was magic all around. It was palpable. I could taste it. Like his cock when in my mouth, I could feel it surge and grow.
Under the dark of the moon he delic
ately inched me forward. I knew not what was to transpire, but that’s the way it always was. I never knew. It wasn’t my place to know. Just to breathe.
At last we paused. Sir opened his heavy cloak to a wall of thick brush which he parted with one hand.
What?? I blinked my eyes to what I was seeing…
It was remarkable! There before us was a large, circular clearing, and in it were stones and boulders of every shape and size: monoliths, wedges, smooth rounded rocks, and stone platforms. Small, spherical river rocks encircled the large perimeter, and here and there sat stone sculptures carved in unique detail. My mouth gaped open; all I could do was stare. It was beautiful, and ancient. How had one man done all of this? We had only walked two or three minutes and all this was tucked away in this little woods—part of a huge woods—behind his house?
Sir urged me on. Now uncloaked and exposed, I rubbed my shivering arms. I missed the warmth of that robe and the heat of Sir’s possessing, hot body.
Sir took my hand and brusquely pulled me further into the clearing. Like a living curtain, the brush obligingly closed behind us with a whoosh. He guided me shivering and naked to the center of the expansive, cylindrical space.
“Here,” he whispered throatily, touching a spot on a platform comprised of a large, flat rock balanced four feet off the ground on solid stone pillars. He let go of my hand, took me by the waist to boost me up.
My ass met the damp, cold slab which sent me shivering harder, and my bare feet dangled over the edge, far from the ground.
“Lay down,” he directed forcefully. “On your back,” he continued, pushing my shoulders down. I obeyed, my heart pounding in exhilaration.
I looked up at the black, moonless sky from my prone position. I could hear the rustle of leaves in the wind as a chilly breeze swept over my naked breasts; over my stomach and wet cunt. I gathered my hands to the center of my chest and balled them up in tight little fists as if to strengthen my resolve. My wrist restraints clicked softly as they touched. My lower lip was quivering, from the cold, and from the power that was Sir towering over me.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered, huskily.
“…and open your mouth.”
I did.
Sir tilted my head all the way back over the edge of the stone altar.
Suddenly the warmth of his thick, hot penis was at my lips. He took my jaws in both hands and entered.
“Not a sound!” He cautioned again, more sternly. “All I want to hear are the sounds of my cock sliding down your throat.”
I knew that was going to be rough. I had practiced and practiced with the dildo as instructed in an effort to get my small throat to comply, sending Sir video of my sincere attempts, and of the progress made as I marked the depth achieved on the dildo. But each endeavor with Sir previously had met with failure. My throat was just too small. I remembered how Sir had once Wire-whipped the blood out of my ass to extract my throat-opening compliance, but it had been in vain: my throat simply would not yield to him.
I was panicking now. What could I do? My head was upside down, he had a firm grip on my jaws; he had forbidden me to make noise; I was four feet off the ground, and god-awfully close to his house and his 'Others'. We were out in the open, in the chilled night air, no muffling studio walls, no camouflaging music to drown out my pleas, my whines, my disobedience. No where to run, no way to escape! I arched my back, my hands froze open, but I did not resist past that. I knew better; I’d heard his voice. My Owner paused, took hold of my wrists and clipped each restraint to hooks bonded to the sides of the rock to 'help' me. He moved to my ankles and did the same with them. I was now spread-eagled on the rock altar, an 'X' of shivering submissive, struggling to remain calm. I was not accomplishing it well.
Now he slowly came back to my head and re-tilted it over the edge. He took his time. He stroked my face and slid a finger over my trembling lips as I whimpered. He inserted his large thumb into my mouth and worked it deep. It was coming…it was coming. Now, the thumb became a pry bar, holding my mouth open with one hand and his hard cock entering into its maw. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
He pushed his thick cock further till he touched the back of my throat and I gagged, but I could not turn left or right from his vice-grip. I felt his pubic hair brushing my chin and his hot balls against my forehead. I tried to squeak a protest, but it was muted by his bulbous head crammed back in my throat. I couldn’t make a sound.
The swollen cock would not be denied. There was no place else for it to go but down my virgin throat. I felt my throat trying to open, as it tried to open to the rubber dildo in my commanded practices, but it felt like it would rupture. My Owner tilted my head all the way back this time till it was upside down over the edge of the rock platform. It made me so dizzy my head swam, but there was no fighting it. I hated this feeling! But the position gave him a straight shot. Out of options, I had no choice but to simply give up and let go. Relax, like when he was fucking my ass. Relax and give him my throat to fuck. I relaxed my esophagus and swallowed with every thrust.
Let go and submit; submit my throat to my Owner and his firm, delicious dick that was filling my mouth and jaws deeper with every new plunge. My slippery, sex-slave throat was taking a hammering, but I felt it slowly giving way. Expanding. Loosening. My own thick saliva coated the forced opening and the smooth head of his dick was going all the way down whether I liked it or not. It was going or else. I could feel every inch of it, sliding, sliding, deeper and deeper, bulging out the skin of my throat like a heron swallowing a fish. Now he was withdrawing to let me breathe, and entering again. I caught my breath with every timed-withdrawal, gulped for it. It was that or pass out. My throat bulged more with every push. Deeper, deeper, and deeper.
What an interesting photo this would make. That bizarre—but true—thought popped into my head as I gave myself to my Master. I know Sir was thinking the same thing, and if he hadn’t been enjoying fucking my throat so much he would have snapped photos of my throat bulging and my arms chained to his altar. And he was enjoying himself. I could tell, oh yes he was. I could hear his soft murmurs and blunted groans of pleasure mount as he pumped straight in.
I gagged each time his cock drove into my throat, and it stretched and burned, but then I would swallow, and all the way down it would go. My gag reflex overcome at last, there was no more resistance, no gagging, only fucking; beautiful, delicious, maddening fucking. The sounds were incredible. Oh how I wanted my hands free to touch myself and cum. I was squirming and wiggling like a snake on a skillet. The only thing more perfect than Sir fucking my throat, would have been him blistering my ass and thighs at the same time.
My Owner gripped my jaws and began to pound with total abandon. The sight must have been incredible: his submissive’s white, naked body, bound hand and foot on a primitive rock altar, head being held while her mouth and throat were thoroughly fucked, rocking with every thrust. Oh, the discipline!
He shook my whole body with the force of the face fucking. I let my hands go limp and took whatever he dealt. Stroke after stroke after burning stroke. It felt good, but like swallowing Tabasco it burned. His obedient, submissive whore finally getting properly and royally face-fucked, like Sir had wanted to do for years.
He was mouth fucking me with abandon for the very first time, doing it so deep in my throat, and I was submissively complying!
His balls slapped my forehead and his pubic hair tickled my eyelids. I could feel his cum building. I could hear his stifled, guttural growls. He was cumming hard! He was going to shoot his hot cum straight down my throat, and I was going to take it all, every last drop, and I knew he wouldn’t stop until I did.
I tasted the pre-cum; felt its super slipperiness added to my gag-reflex saliva. There was no turning back now. This was going to happen and the cool air on my thighs told me my cunt was dripping wet with pussy juice in anticipation.
Three more strokes and he came.
With a barely audible r
oar because he had to contain it, he came.
I felt the cum exploding down my raw, burnt throat in a burst of heat and salt. I wanted to cry out, but that was impossible now, for several reasons. The most significant being I couldn’t imagine my punishment if I had.
I drank and sucked and gulped with abandon, letting the elixir squirt all the way down my throat. I drained my Owner dry, giving myself over to him totally just as he had always wanted. At last he had made it happen. His attempts at quelling his noises of obvious pleasure completely in the still of the night were failing, but after all, it was not he who was had to remain quiet, only me.
Sir fell forward on both hands and let out a hard breath. I could feel his hot breath on my heaving breasts. I lay very still now with his melting cock still in my mouth, breathing as best I could around it, and through my nose. The little squirts that trickled out drained down my throat, too.
Slowly savoring it another minute, he finally withdrew his cock and let me lick the last few cum drips off the end, guiding himself through my lips with his own hand. His dick pumped the final precious drop onto my waiting tongue. My throat was swollen. It felt like a case of tonsillitis, and so swollen I couldn’t speak. My voice was gone—silenced by an exploding dick.
He released my hands and legs and told me to touch myself until I came. I was more than ready. My cunt was slipperier than my throat, and my throat was coated with a load of creamy, thick cum! My fingers shot between my thighs and found their mark. My opened legs were wide and inviting and I began rolling my swollen clit with one hand and prodding my cunt and asshole at the same time, with the other. It wasn’t going to take long. I was writhing and arching and grinding my ass into the stone like the whore I was—his whore, and only his.
Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir Page 43