Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir Read online

  Masochism of M

  A Sexual Mémoir

  By

  Janice Collins

  (Tweet by Neil Gaiman)

  Copyright © 2016 by Janice Collins

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  First Edition: December 2016

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are real. Every effort has been made to disguise identities.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN: 9781520262031

  Imprint: Independently published

  BOOK ONE

  Author Janice Collins now shares her BDSM mémoir, Masochism of M, distilled from her (ongoing) erotic twenty-year diary. Chronicled in its fiery pages are explicit details of her lurid, yet entirely voluntary sexual training at the hands of the British 3 Commando Brigade airman she calls Sir. Falling deeply in love with him, M surrenders her body to Sir’s dangerous, forbidden sex in exchange for the high to which she is now hopelessly addicted. The reward for placing her life unquestioningly in the hands of her Owner is the uninhibited liberation of her soul, and a degree of ecstasy few will ever know.

  Achieving duel minors in Honor’s English and Psychology serves Ms. Collins well in allowing her to chronicle her own aberration. Never-before published, it is past time for opening of the creaking door to the dark and mysterious world of BDSM, to allow those so inclined—and those not aware they are so inclined— to peek inside.

  Ms. Collins, an accomplished professional illustrator, has created the beautiful B/W plates chronicling Masochism of M as only one who has experienced it can.

  Diligently recounting her journey in this flagship mémoir, to share bits of her pièce de résistance has been a decades-long compulsion. Till now she struggled with doubts about the wisdom of baring her soft underbelly to the world’s sharp talons, but, tossing caution to the wind, Ms. Collins has decided it’s time…

  And time it is indeed. The BDSM world requires vindication after all; reality; thefull spectrum of color. True BDSM is not SHADES of anything, and it is certainly not GRAY.

  Through Masochism of M it all begins….

  Want more? Just say 'please Sir'.

  To my devoted family whom I love with all my heart. Your unquestioning and unconditional support has given me the courage to share my clandestine life with everyone...but you. Should you be reading this tome now, I want you to believe it is borne of a splendid, uninhibited imagination belonging to one who knows we must over-shoot the moon to reach the stars.

  I hope we achieve those stars together.

  Wish me luck, Sir…

  ∞

  The story behind NEIL GAIMAN’s tweet,

  “You will do fine without me.”

  Several years ago I tweeted my favorite author, Neil Gaiman, whom I admire so much for his depth, his humanitarianism, and his devil-may-care writing style through which he boldly tells the rest of the world to sod off. He does it his way… and succeeds. I was hoping for any encouragement and, outrageously, a word or two as a forward—anything at all, really. To my utter shock and delight, he wrote back, not only with suggestions on my use of graphics and a quip about reviewing my book, but this:

  “You will do fine without me.”

  If such a highly esteemed author as Mr. Gaiman thinks I’ll do fine, I’ll take it.

  DISCLAIMER

  Welcome to M’s sultry world, a world of dominance, submission, and pain. Endure the training of a young voluntary sex slave as her body is claimed by leather and chains, while her heart is claimed by love.

  From the college classroom, to the wild riverside, to being given to both sexes at the Mansion, Masochism of M kicks wide the door to the forbidden chamber of erotic enlightenment of a loving and beloved sexually submissive slave.

  Do not delude yourself that you are immune. Each of us carries masochism or sadism within us to varying degrees; to what degree are you? Admit it; the thought of BDSM makes your hands sweat and your heart race. You’re a proverbial moth to the flame. Why else would you be here?

  I am M, and though my chosen lifestyle is for neither the faint-of-heart nor an easy pathway for others, I make no apologies. I will share what truly set me free.

  Masochism of M is my true mémoir; I have changed only the names and locations to protect the innocent. The blistering sexual tortures chronicled herein are but a tantalizing taste of the thousands of dark BDSM journeys faithfully recorded in my twenty-year diary.

  I am lucky to belong to my Owner, and grateful he deems to make me his through the ecstasy of the lash. Possessor of all that I am he ultimately takes great care with me as one would a precious Ming vase. Unrelentingly he has borne me to the highest highs, and for this, I am eternally grateful.

  To reveal to the uninitiated the unbreakable bond forged between Master and slave is perhaps this mémoir’s greatest mission. It is a glorious thing, submission. Take my hand now as I slip it into my restraint. Sweat with me; I will help you understand.

  M

  Contents

  1—The Woods

  2—School

  3—Sir

  4 —The Question...

  5—Fire

  6 —Break

  7 —The Shoot

  8 —Illinois

  9 —Little Miss Dangerous

  10—Re-birth

  11 —Clean White Rope

  12 —The House

  13—The Upper Room

  14 —Brother Dearest

  15—Dark Shutter

  16 —The Mansion

  17 —Scratch It

  18—Pretty Woman

  19—The Tree

  20 —Italiano

  21—Snake

  22—Heat…

  23—Now THIS...Is Bondage

  24—Celebrate Good Times

  25—Once More With Feeling

  26—I’m Alive

  27—Electronic Daze

  28—More Dangerous Than Ever

  29—Uh Oh…

  30—We’re WHERE...Again?

  31—Pushing Our Luck...

  32—Thruout The Dark Months Of April And May

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  1—The Woods

  “God is a Bullet.”

  I looked up at the full moon one last time before he slipped the hood over my head. She was so beautiful tonight, that silvery orb in the indigo sky. With the evening air so unseasonably warm lulling me it was hard to be frightened this time. Something was different.

  All the while he secured my hands to the branch above my head I had calmly gazed at the beautiful moon, dissected now by lacy clouds. At his instruction, with my own hands I had carried the green canvas bag that was soon to steal my sight. Inside was a thick leather paddle, a long rawhide whip and—pièce de résistance—the Wire.

  I wasn’t afraid quite yet. It was all still an abstraction, was to come. It wasn’t here yet so I was OK to float on the air of beautiful surrealism. I drew a halting breath and held it, just to savor the precious moment of 'not yet'. It was never a matter of 'do you want this'; it was simply 'yes'.

  I had no other will but his, and that was what had me by the heart. There might have been another choice long ago and far away in the land before Sir, but not now. The highs and the lows were too intoxicating, too mesmerizing, too succulent, and I was hopeless hooked.

  The Wire…just the word brought shivers to my skin. The thought of it; the horror of it; the practicality of using it to command my at
tention; hypnosis over took me with a dazing swirl whenever the Wire was mentioned.

  I knew it was coming. I knew there would be mind-numbing pain. However, I knew just as well that I would accept it, embrace it, and endure it as best I could to please my master. It was who I am, who I’ll always be. Was I shaped or incubated? Bent or born?

  No matter. I was. I simply was, and knew in my soul that this is where I wanted—above all else—to be.

  Imagine the softest, silkiest, most soothing coverlet wrapping you in its folds, a coverlet of the rarest of exotic threads to which only you were privy. Imagine that this coverlet was all you thought about, all you craved, incessantly, constantly, a hunger without end. And it was yours for the taking, that intoxicating drug pouring off it and spiking directly into your veins. All you had to do was submit—just submit to the pain—and it was yours.

  The Wire:

  As a hand-fashioned section of metal coat hanger, the Wire subtly ripped as it kissed. It curved into a small handle at one end, and the tip at the opposite end was left barbed and jagged. Of course, the rope and gag were also in the pouch. I’d hoped the gag would not be necessary tonight, though the choice, indirectly, was always mine.

  My Owner took great care with my bindings: not too tight—just enough to make me obey. That’s what it was all about: obedience, submission, and control. I wanted to submit to my Master above everything, and he in his ultimate compassion was kind enough to facilitate it.

  Suddenly darkness descended; the hood’s drawstring tightened and I panicked, frightened I’d choke on the bits of rubber sloughing off inside. Silly, but that’s how one’s thoughts go when bound, helpless in the dark. I twisted and squeaked, begging, swearing my obedience and silence, and, mercifully, my Owner relented. My heart throbbed in my rushing ears, as the world of darkness was complete. It’s so scary to be helpless, bound, and blinded to what you know is to come. Nothing else compared to this delicious kind of scary. I licked my lips for any bit of moisture, but there was none. I was utterly dry-mouthed with the incessant cold fear.

  Now it was hitting, but it was too late. I was a fly trapped in the web of a big, dark, spider as it pierced me with its myriad eyes.

  “You know the sounds I want to hear….” he intoned darkly, withdrawing the hood.

  Yes, I knew; very well.

  “…whines and moans and little squeaky whimpers. Anything else and you’ll have the gag and the hood put back on. Do you understand?”

  I understood completely. His voice had taken on that guttural tone, black and pregnant with anticipation. I would strive to behave extremely well to avoid the dreaded gag and hood.

  Somehow, tonight, I felt I could do it, for tonight the moon was working her spell. My heart pounded so hard I thought my head would explode. CALM. CALM. CALM my brain screamed as I bit my lip to maintain a semblance of control.

  In self-preservation mode my thoughts began to soften, to fuzz, and to grab at anything other than what was to come. I latched onto the memory of moments before when on my knees on a blanket beneath this ordained tree he had allowed me to pleasure him (‘Don’t ruin your stockings... !’) till he was full-blown. I had gracefully knelt before him, removed his belt and unzipped his fly, to cup his cock in my hand and envelop him with trembling lips. I had sucked and worked on him until he was hard and throbbing. I didn’t want to stop, he tasted so good, and the moment was unbelievably intoxicating. Then he had lifted me gently to my feet to begin, the sacred energy of this spot now indelible, like a memory chiseled in stone.

  His hand, like that of a 17th-century aristocrat had then delicately waltzed me to my living altar. Fragile, this turbulent magic. Delicate, this glassine ‘Time Bubble’ sealing us forever.

  Further and further my brain slipped into this protective cocoon of memories, to steal me away from the 'now'. I remembered how he had positioned me facing the tree and had bound my waist to its sturdy trunk with such love and tenderness. I knew, as was his M.O., he had carefully selected this tree out of the infinite number available in the thick woods. Its base about twelve inches in diameter, the first branch was just low enough to accommodate my stretching arms, just high enough to keep me on tiptoe. My Owner was meticulous that way. After all these years there was no questioning that his were the perfect hands in which to place my life—which I did. Over and over again.

  Yes, this was working to calm me, this distraction, this submersion into the syrupy reality of what had just transpired. However, time was up. I had only a moment to resurface, to gulp air before drowning again.

  Now I stood, helplessly suspended between time and time.

  “Very quiet,” my Owner whispered, his hot body pressed against mine.

  Then, stepping back he curtly tucked my skirt into its belt baring my naked ass to his will.

  One last time I looked up at the placid, calming Sister Moon, and then…

  … the lightning struck.

  I gasped. Uncontrollably my knee jerked and my head tossed. Before I could reason, another welt exploded. Then another, and another. I felt the whip’s full length wrap completely around my body, but all I could do was gasp—all I was permitted to do was gasp—gasp, and writhe, and moan.

  Pain cascaded. Time froze. Nothing was real except the whirlwind that hurtled me through space. Each new wave slammed the last. It was ice; it was fire; it was impossible to endure and yet…

  I whimpered and whined at every welt, which melded into the next till nothing mattered but romancing that pain. There was no demarcation between kiss and recoil, no up or down. Everything entangled like twine in a kitten's paws. My frozen mouth was a silent scream through which I couldn’t suck enough air. Icy hot sweat instantly drenched my glistening skin, as gradually, mercifully, I became detached. I was faintly aware that someone was moaning. Who was that? My lips were clamped tight, so it couldn’t be me.

  Of course it was.

  Even spiraling into darkness I was sweetly aware of my tingling nipples and spasming clit as on and on the pain rolled. I was trying so hard to be good, and this vestige of pleasure was my reward.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

  I’d lost count at seven, but my brain had screamed on to… was it ten? Every part of me throbbed with a luscious indecency. Did it hurt or did it agonize? If it hurt, why was I on the verge of orgasm? Could both exist at the same time?

  Oh, Yes.

  My Owner had stopped.

  I heaved, body sagging, grateful for even a moment’s reprieve, but it was not to last. He was merely regrouping for the next discipline: the paddle.

  The thick leather paddle by its design made an audible snap as it kissed. With its stout wooden handle—which my Owner used at times to sodomize me—the paddle commanded respect. What wonderful gifts, the whip and the paddle, these leather and hand-polished trophies with which I had been ceremoniously presented; I could not have been more pleased had he given me diamonds. Little could have honored me more than these disciplinary devices, created by his artistic hands with the skill of an artisan…and a lover of pain.

  The paddle’s skin-on-skin caress lasted only moments this time. The sound, though seductively luscious, was obviously too loud for this little glen. Reluctantly retiring it, my Owner released my waist and turned my sweat-glistening body around.

  My hands swiveled above me. What was next? Oh, facing him I would now be privileged to watch the discipline my Owner was bestowing on me. He picked up the Wire—that blessed horror of silence and inspiration of many a night’s wet dream—and wielded it in his large, talented hands. I stole a quick glance at his glazed eyes glued to my red striped legs.

  His aura—shimmering in the moonlight—shot magic everywhere. Glittering fairy dust seemed to sparkle from every leaf and twig. Of course it was the endorphin’s talking—the rush from the incredible pain—but it had me so damned high. Heart pounding with anticipation, I watched in disbelief as he retrieved my right ankle, ever-so-reverently caressed its bla
ck spike heel, then lifted my leg waist high and obligingly struck the exposed inner thigh. The shock staggered me. I sagged uncontrollably, but I knew all I was allowed was an hysterical sigh. I clamped my lips tight.

  “Ten on each,” he murmured, trance-like eyes riveted to my pale flesh. Methodically the sentence was carried out on the captive leg as he welted a large patch of white skin with thin, blood-oozing lines. I choked back the screams, nearly hysterical, unable to fathom enduring even one more, when he lowered my bruising leg merely to pick up the other and repeat the process.

  Awesome.

  I hurriedly sucked in a trembling breath and regrouped as best I could in the seconds before my Owner began anew. The horror! The exquisiteness. So tender the delicate skin of the inner thigh. His transfixed eyes, worshiping of the torture before him, were twisted duality. The kisses evoked fresh agony and I squeaked a little, but only a little, and jerked involuntarily once more. Still on fire from the first stripes it was ironic madness that I was somehow able to override the pain. My aching ass was now unmercifully pressed against the rough tree bark, and I watched as the flesh of my thigh rippled with each new lash. Every terrible recoil shook me to the depths of my soul.

  Nearly an indescribable event, the Wire’s kiss sears like icy lightning, its jaggedly cut tip ripping a tiny gash wherever it touches.

  The full sensation of the Wire isn’t felt until moments later, after the rocking, resounding pain hits. If luck prevailed, the little, bloodied stab that accompanied this special caress left a tiny scar in its wake. However, unfortunately, the scars never lasted. How I wanted them to. How I felt cheated after all these years of earning them. 'Scars—to show where you’ve been….' my Owner quoted.

  Now the magic was slowly receding; through swollen eyes and thick lids I looked up to see that the moon was tolerating the passage of an obliterating black cloud. She was abandoning me! The darkness jangled my nerves and shook my resolve. A light breeze skimmed the sweat shimmering on my lacerated skin and I shivered with the chill. I was beginning to weaken. My reserves were waning. I wasn’t sure I could properly, to my Owner’s satisfaction endure the Wire should he decide to caress me further. I shivered and heaved, wanting above all else to please him. He was my World, my Universe. My heaven and hell. He was the giver of pleasure; the bestower of pain. Through him I could live to suffer the sexual euphoria of which few on this planet would ever be privileged to bear.