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Introduction:

A college professor presents a performance art production of "I, Masochist" with a little technical help from W. Afterwards, the professor who referred the masochistic models to her asks her and W's help in recording the six young women's stories of how and why they are masochists. The eight chapters of this story each stand on their own, but make more sense if you have read the previous chapters. I am posting this entire series in the BDSM category. Although a couple of the chapters might not exactly fit the theme, all are concerned with the realities of masochism. These stories are loosely based on conversations I have had through the years with people who are attracted to or receive pleasure from pain, but none of the individuals depicted is based on any one person. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Chapter two of eight is W's interview with "Abigail.".
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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2013 by The Technician ( Technician666@Gmail.Com. )

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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I still wasn't sure how I suddenly became a researcher for a sex therapist studying masochism, but two weeks later, I was back at Shelly's apartment for the first of six interviews. Despite the fact that Dr Collins was a total asshole, I had agreed to meet with Shelly's models and write up their stories, or at least write up the answers to their interviews. I think a lot of that decision had to do with the fact that after a night of fantastic sex following the party, Shelly batted her eyes at me again and asked, "So, will you do it? Will you help that old pervert figure out why we girls are like we are?"

That question, combined with the fact that Dr. Collins had begged me to "do this for them," overcame my reservations and I agreed. I told Shelly to talk to the girls and arrange times that I could sit down with them and talk. In the meantime, I was going to get something in writing from the good doctor about what he wanted me to ask.

It took two weeks to get everything in order and for Shelly to set up meeting times. It was going to take at least eight weeks to complete the interviews. Shelly even made one blank appointment at the end so I had the time already on my calendar in case one of the girls had a last minute conflict with her scheduled time. The girls decided that we should meet at Shelly's apartment since they all knew where that was. I think they also felt more comfortable and safe there. I liked the idea because Shelly indicated that after the interview I could just stay over for the weekend.

The first model was Abigail, and no, that is not her real name. They were going to be A, B, C, D, E and F but I decided to use a name to make it more personal as I wrote out their stories. Maybe that is what Dr. Collins didn't like about me going by "W." Calling someone "A" seems so impersonal. At least "W" has a couple of syllables when you say it out loud. It sounds more like a name than just saying "A" or "C."

When she arrived at Shelly's place, Abigail was wearing a light blue pair of sweat pants and a white t-shirt style knitted top. It was obvious that she didn't have a bra on under the top since her nipples were making themselves known through the soft fabric. They didn't seem to be stiff and erect, they were evidently just that large in their natural state.

Abby was a very attractive girl, about five-three with very pale skin and very light brown, almost blond, hair. Her eyes were emerald green, and with her high cheek bones and somewhat triangularly shaped face, she probably could make a decent living as a model. She didn't have the height or the thinness for the runway, but could work steadily for catalogues and television ads.

But we weren't here to discuss her future career choices. We were here to discuss her sexual orientation or lifestyle or preferences or whatever the current politically correct term is for her sex life. After I thanked her for coming and indicated that she could sit or stand depending on what was most comfortable for her, I explained that I had a few questions that Dr. Collins wanted answered. I said I also had a few questions of my own but we would primarily just be talking and if we didn't get to everything on the list, that was fine. I assured her that it was OK to ramble a little if she wanted to. I would put it all in proper order later.

She decided that she wanted to sit at the kitchen table with me and asked for a cup of coffee. She wrapped both of her hands around the mug like it was her Linus blanket and looked at me with wide open eyes.

"Abby," I began, "tell me the absolutely best sexual experience you have ever had."

"Wow!" she answered. "Dr. Collins never asked anything like that. That must be one of your questions."

It wasn't.

She gnawed on her lower lip for a few moments, and then said, "I'd like to think that the absolute best is yet to come, but what comes to mind is a canoe trip that my boyfriend, Dwayne, and I took about three years ago. It was supposed to be a really crappy weekend with a cold front and storms and all of that, but we had both arranged for the time off and so we said, 'The heck with it. If we have to stay in the tent for four days, we will find something to do.'" She gave me a grin.

"We got to the campground late on Saturday with plans to stay until Tuesday morning. It was cold and wet and miserable and there were only a few other tents in the whole campground. Sunday morning wasn't much better and everyone else but us packed up and went home. But then late Sunday morning the sun came out and it started warming up. By two in the afternoon, it was gorgeous. We went over to the canoe place and asked about going out on the river. The man who ran it said it was too late in the day, that we wouldn't be able to get to the pickup point before sunset."

"'Is there any way we can do this?' I asked."

"His answer was, 'Not unless you want to spend the night camped on a sandbar somewhere.'"

"Dwayne perked up at that. He asked a few more questions and then we walked back to camp and he got a small tent and an old sleeping bag out of his car. A stop at the camp store for some beer and water and an hour later we were paddling downstream. It was beautiful and we were totally alone on the river. I was wearing a bikini with a t-shirt over it. Dwayne had on swim trunks and a t-shirt. The sun had come out and it was starting to get hot, so I took off my t-shirt. Dwayne said, 'You don't have to stop there. No one here to see you but me.'"

"I took off the top. I don't know why I did that, but I did. I was so embarrassed. I was blushing so bad it looked like I had a sunburn. I looked around to see if anyone could see me, and Dwayne was right. There was no one around. We were perfectly alone on the river."

"Suddenly I wanted to be naked. I lifted myself slightly off the seat and slid my bottoms down to my knees and then sat back down and pulled them over my feet. Dwayne cried out, 'What are you doing?' I think he was afraid I was going to capsize the canoe. We were coming up on a bridge, and Dwayne said, 'You might want to cover up a little. There might be people up on the bridge.'"

"I turned even redder and hunched over so that my breasts were covered and you couldn't see between my legs. But then as we got closer, I started feeling warm all over. It wasn't a blush warm. It was something totally different. I lay back as far as I could with my arms over the sides of the canoe and lifted my legs and put them outside the canoe at the bow. I opened my legs even wider as we approached the bridge so that I was laying there almost spread eagle in the front of the canoe as we went under."

"There was no one on the bridge or on the highway, and I would have been terribly embarrassed if anyone had actually seen me, but as soon as we got past the bridge, I yelled for Dwayne to put the canoe onto a large sandbar that split the river just beneath the bridge. I ran up onto the sand and lay down on my back. 'Do me, Dwayne, I yelled at him. Fuck me now. Right here in front of God and everybody.'"

"He pulled the canoe up onto the sand and walked over to me. He looked around to see if we were really alone, and then didn't waste any time, but dropped his trunks and slammed into me. I started coming as soon as his prick touched my cunt and kept coming and coming for as long as he was pumping into me. After we were finished, he set up the tent and gathered some firewood from the shore. We camped there overnight and made love twice more before morning. While we were going at it in the middle of the night, a car drove past on the bridge. I knew that they couldn't see us down below them in the dark, but they probably heard me because the fact that they were there drove me over the edge harder than ever before."

"Just after dawn, we were snuggled together in the sleeping bag and Dwayne began stroking me all over and nuzzling against the back of my neck. I turned over and he lay on top of me and slowly entered me. He was pressed tightly against me from shoulders to waist and was sliding very slowly in and out while he stroked my face with his hands. I can't say that I went especially high, but we seemed to be making love forever, and we reached that magic point at exactly the same time. As we came together it was like we became one body for a few seconds."

"So, in one night, I had the most intense, the longest, and the closest sexual experiences of my life. Taken together, that was the absolutely best sexual experience in my life... so far."

I laughed slightly and Abby started to frown like she was upset. "I'm not laughing at you," I said. "I am celebrating your optimism that even after what you just described, your true best sexual experience is still to come."

She grinned at me and asked, "What is the next question?"

"What do you think it should be?" I asked in response.

"Now you are sounding like Dr. Collins," she said, "but if I were asking the questions, I would ask what my worst sexual experience was."

"OK," I replied. "That wasn't next on my list, but why don't we go with that. What was the absolutely worst sexual experience you have ever had."

"I was raped," she said, her face suddenly turning dark and serious. "No, it wasn't truly rape," she added. "I was set up, tricked, seduced, played for a sucker, or whatever you want to call it. I said yes, so it wasn't rape of my body. It was, however, still rape of my mind and of my person."

She looked over at me and waited for me to make a comment. I remained quiet, so she continued, "I was 18 and a senior in High School and I had the deepest crush on one of the football players. The problem was that I was a little bit heavier then. I wasn't really fat, but I was a little plump, and that meant that I wasn't a part of the in crowd. And the football jocks only paid attention to the in-crowd, cheerleader types."

"Anyway, somehow Carl found out about my crush and he and his buddies cooked up a plan to humiliate me. He sat next to me at lunch for the whole week and asked how I was doing in class and what music I liked and all of those getting-to-know-you-better questions. Then he asked if I wanted to go out with him Saturday night. I knew that meant he was expecting me to sleep with him, but I said yes."

"The date started out pretty normal. He took me to a nice place to eat and then to a movie. After the movie, he asked me if I had ever seen Forbidden Glen in the moonlight. I had never heard of Forbidden Glen, so I said, 'No.'"

"'Well,' he said. 'We will fix that tonight. I am sure you will never forget it.'"

"I should have suspected something when he gave me a really odd smile after he said that, but I thought he was just thinking about having sex. We drove a little ways out into the country. I really didn't know where we were because he kept turning and going a short distance and turning again. Finally we turned down this one-lane gravel road and went back into the woods for quite a ways."

"'It's only a short walk from here,' he said, and took me by the hand. It was really dark and I couldn't quite see what was around me. Carl was using his flashlight to illuminate the path, and every time I was just about acclimated to the darkness, he would turn around and shine it on me - in my face, and ask if I was still doing OK. Finally we came to a clearing. All I could see was the small circle of light from his flashlight, but since no one kept shining a flashlight in his eyes, Carl evidently could see better."

"He took me out into the center of the clearing and pulled me close to him. His tongue pushed deeply into my mouth..., and I let him. He started unbuttoning my blouse..., and I let him. He unsnapped my jeans and pushed them to the ground..., and I let him. I was writhing against him. I wanted him so badly. He lowered me to the ground and then slid my panties down my legs. I arched my back and lifted myself off the ground so he could pull them over my hips. He was kissing my breasts and sucking on my nipples and rubbing his hand between my legs."

"'Carl,' I begged. 'Fuck me. Please fuck me. I want to feel you inside of me. He unzipped his jeans and pulled out his cock. He wasn't as large as I thought he would be, but he was still big. His jeans felt rough against the skin of my inner thighs as he pushed himself into me. I could feel the metal of his zipper against my pussy lips. This wasn't how I had imagined it, but I was too far gone to care. I thrust back up against him."

"I've always been more than a little noisy when I am reaching my peak, and I was starting to grunt and moan and yell. I started yelling, 'Yes! Yes! Yesssssssssss!'"

"On the third yes, the world around us exploded into fiery white light. I looked around and I could see that Carl and I were in the center of a ring of automobiles with their headlights pointed in at us. The entire football team and all of the cheerleaders and everyone who was part of their in group were sitting or standing on the cars yelling and cheering. They started chanting, 'Slut! Slut! Slut! Slut! Goooooooo slut!'"

She sat there silently looking at me, expecting me to say something. "What did you do?" I finally asked.

"I came," she answered. "I had a screaming, yelling, kicking, squirting orgasm while everyone with a camera or cell phone took pictures. Then I dragged myself out from under Carl and ran naked into the woods while everyone hooted and laughed at me. I was so ashamed. I couldn't face any of them. I tried to run back to Carl's car, but there must have been a dozen trails in the woods and I didn't know which one we had come down to get to the clearing. Finally I just curled up in a ball and cried."

"After a while I got back up and walked down the trail that I knew led to the clearing. All the cars were gone. My clothes, or what was left of them, were in a pile in the middle of the clearing. They had cut the sleeves off my blouse and shortened it so that it barely covered my breasts. My jeans were cut off so short that there was almost nothing left of the crotch. The pieces they had cut off of the blouse and jeans had all been torn or cut into tiny pieces. My underwear was not with the pile of clothing. I was going to have to walk home half naked. It probably would have looked better if I had just stayed naked."

She again went silent and I again asked, "What happened then?"

Abby blushed rather deeply and looked down at the floor. "I never told Dr Collins any of this, and even if I had, I wouldn't have told him this part. What I did next was to lay down on top of what was left of my clothes and rub myself into three more orgasms. Sometimes even today when I masturbate, I imagine myself back in the middle of that clearing under the glare of all those headlights."

"But I thought you said this was your worst sexual experience?" I asked. I think confusion might have even shown on my face.

"It was," she answered. "I hated it. I hated the humiliation. But at the same time, I came and came and came and came because of it. I still do."

She lowered her head again and looked at the floor. "I still hate it. I am still ashamed of it. I still wish it had never happened. And yet, I still come and come and come even thinking about it. If you weren't here, I would probably have to get out my vibrator and jill myself off ."

I cleared my throat, and hopefully my mind before my body started acting on impulses that would be a little out of place. "I notice," I said, "that neither your best or your worse experience involved pain., and yet you call yourself - or Dr. Collins calls you - a masochist. Tell me about a time - perhaps the first time - when you got sexual satisfaction from pain."

"Masochism isn't just pain," she answered. "It is also humiliation. Pain alone doesn't do it for me. If its sexual, and if its public - if people are watching, then pain turns me on. But if its in private, most of the time pain is just pain."

"OK then, tell me about a time, perhaps the first time, that the combination of pain and humiliation gave you sexual satisfaction."

"There have been a couple of public spankings that took me over the top," she mused. "But probably the first time I got pleasure out of it was once when I was eight or nine years old. It wasn't sexual, or if it was I didn't realize it. But I felt really good inside." "What happened?" I asked.

"We had this big family reunion in a huge state park. I don't know how many people were there, but there were at least a dozen cousins that were about my same age. We were all supposed to be there at noon. Mom insisted that I bring along a dress to wear for a big family picture that was going to be taken as soon as everyone arrived."

"When we got there, I had on a pair of shorts and a top that were a neon shade of pinkish red. They were tight, but really soft, and I liked to wear them with nothing under them. I figured that I would just put the dress on over them, so it didn't make any difference that I left my panties at home."

She looked up at me and blushed. "They didn't show anything," she said. "They were fairly thick and I was only eight, so there wasn't much to show. I wasn't wearing them to be sexy. It was just that they were really, really comfortable, almost like wearing pajamas, and they felt so good next to my skin."

I remained silent.

She continued. "After we had been at the park for about and hour, Mom told me to get my dress out of the car and go into the restroom and change for the picture. I did, but when I looked at myself in the mirror, my neon pink shorts and top were clearly visible through the white dress. There was nothing else I could do, I took them off. My skin didn't show through like the neon pink did. Besides, it was a long dress so nobody was going to see anything. I figured I would put everything back on after the picture was taken and nobody would know."

She blushed slightly and looked down. "Things didn't work out like I expected. Somebody hadn't gotten there yet, so the picture was delayed. Mom told me to sit quietly and wait and 'Don't eat anything!'"

Abbie had almost yelled out her mom's words. I smiled and asked, "What did you eat?"

"A cherry tart," she replied with a little girl smile of embarrassment. "And I managed to drip red cherry filling down the front of my white dress. Mom was furious. She dragged me over to the corner of the picnic shelter where there was a water faucet and said, 'Give me the dress.'"

"'What!? Here!?' I sputtered."

"'They're ready for the picture,' she answered. 'And you'd better hope that all of that red washes off the front of the dress.'"

"She grabbed me and pulled the dress up over my head. I guess she assumed that an eight year old standing there in her underwear wouldn't cause much of a stir, but I wasn't standing there in my underwear. I was standing there naked! She was so intent on scrubbing the cherry stuff off the dress that she didn't even notice at first, but the cousins did. They all stopped what they were doing and stood around us in a big circle."

"I was trying to hide myself but there was nothing to get behind. I had to just stand there trying to hide myself with my hands. I hadn't started to develop yet, so that meant holding both hands over my slit. After Mom finished rinsing the cherry filling off the front of the dress, she turned around to put it back on me. 'Abigail Marie!' she screamed. 'Why are you naked!? Where is your underwear!?'"

"'I didn't wear any,' I answered. Then I tried to explain about the neon pink shorts, but Mom wasn't listening. She sat down on a picnic table bench and pulled me over her lap.

"'Thought you would show your ass to your cousins, did you?' she yelled. 'Well, you are going to show them a very red ass.' And then she started spanking me. I had embarrassed her in front of her family and it really got to her. I don't think Mom ever lost control as much as she did that day. I was crying and screaming and the cousins were laughing and then Mom said to me, 'Quit squirming and jumping. You are showing your cousins everything you've got.'"

"Suddenly it didn't hurt anymore. I thought I would die of shame, but I could barely feel Mom's hand and I felt a strange, wonderful warmth deep inside me. I don't know how long Mom kept swinging, but eventually she stood me up and put my dress back over my head. She wiped off my face and straightened my hair and we went over to where everyone was gathered for the family picture. Mom always commented that she could never understand how I could have such and angelic smile on my face in that picture when a few moments before I was getting my butt painted red - that's what she used to call spanking us. She never threatened to spank us. She always would say that she was going to paint our butts red."

"She really painted my butt that day. My ass was really red and it was really sore. Those soft neon shorts didn't feel so soft for the rest of the day. After we ate and us kids were playing in the park, several of the cousins asked me if my butt was red and if it had started to turn purple. I pulled my shorts down and showed them. They laughed and I turned red all over again from shame, but that warm feeling came back for just a second. One of the boy cousins told some of the others, and I ended up showing groups of my cousins my ass another four or five times during the day. Each time, the shame came back, but not as much, and the warm feeling came back, but not as much."

"The park closed an hour after sunset, so shortly after it got dark, everything was over. On the drive home, Mom turned around from the front seat and told me sternly, 'I hope you learned your lesson today, young lady! I have never been so embarrassed in my life.'"

"I learned something that day, but I don't think it was what Mom thought. I learned that I got pleasure from getting spanked naked in public. I wasn't sure if it was the spanking or being naked or the shame of it all, but I did know that whatever happened, I liked it."

"You were one of the models who said that you couldn't take higher levels or longer bursts of pain." I said, changing the subject. "And yet I know you were significantly turned on by the experience and apparently had at least one orgasm during the course of the night that I was there."

"How do you know that for sure? Maybe I was faking it." She responded.

"You can fake the sounds and motions of an orgasm, but you can't fake the smell. And you can't fake moisture running down the insides of your thighs. You may or may not have had an orgasm, but you were at a very high level of sexual arousal."

She grinned at me. "Gee, you're no fun. Dr. Collins would have argued for hours about whether or not I could fake an orgasm."

"So," I continued, "why did you agree to be a model and how or why did it sexually excite you to be displayed in pain bondage like that?"

"I'm nor sure," she replied.

"OK," I said. "Let me help you. Think of the performance. What was it that made it pleasurable. Was it the Bondage?... The pain?... The public nudity?... The perceived shame?... The comments from the audience?... Which of those things gave you pleasure, or gave you the most pleasure."

"The comments from the audience," she answered quickly. "And yes, I did orgasm the night you were there. It was when two older women came by my stage. I had volunteered for the headless cage so I could see everyone as they gathered around me. From the outside those plexiglass panels at the top were totally black, but from the inside, it was like wearing sunglasses and I could swivel my head to look around at everything in front of me."

"Since I was near the back, I could see the whole gallery without anybody being able to tell. I watched these two old bats walk around the exhibit shaking their heads and looking like they had just swallowed a basket of lemons. When they got to my cage, they stood in front of me and looked at my body with obvious disgust on their faces. The older of the two shook her head, tsked a couple of times and said to her friend, 'She must be a real slut to let herself be displayed like that. And to get pleasure from pain is perverted. If I was her mother I would thrash her ass right here and walk her home naked so the whole town could see what a perverted slut she was.'"

"Her friend harumphed and said something, but I couldn't catch it. I was seeing myself naked, being forced through the streets by these two old bags. In my mind, one was standing on each side of me and they both had switches and were swinging them as hard as they could. I loved the look of absolute horror on their eyes as I suddenly yelled out in orgasm and started dripping cunt juice all over the stage."

She looked down slightly like she was thinking and then said, "The bondage and the pain got me going, but the shame - and throwing that shame right back in their faces - really took me over the top."

"One final question, Abby," I said. "When did you first realize that you were different?"

"I never thought I was," she answered. "I still don't think I am. It's no different than the fact that I don't like salty food. People don't ask me why I am different when I don't put salt on everything. Some people like salt. Some people don't. Some people like kinky sex. Some people don't. None of us are different. We just aren't all the same."

I laughed again and Abby frowned at me. "I'm sorry," I said. "I was just thinking of Dr. Collins whining that you girls were lying to him. Sometimes you probably were. And sometimes you might have intentionally left out things. I think a lot of it was that you told him the absolute truth, but he wasn't ready to believe you."

She laughed with me. "You got that right. For somebody who is supposedly studying sex, he is one, uptight old prude."

She scrunched up her face into something between a smile and a questioning look. "Do you think you have everything you need?"

"I didn't need any of it," I answered, "but Dr Collins wants it and Shelly talked me into doing this. So, yes, I have everything I need."

I thanked her again and got her to sign a card that said I could connect her true name to her story for Dr. Collins. As she left Shelly came into the room. She was wearing a diaphanous night gown that didn't hide anything that was beneath it.

"I thought you might need to relieve some sexual tension after listening to her stories," she said as she sat down on my lap and untied the bow that held the gown on her left shoulder. "I was listening at the door and I know that I definitely need to relieve some tension."

"You shouldn't be listening," I scolded her. "I ought to turn you over my knee and spank you."

She untied the other bow and the gown fell to her waist. As she snuggled in against me, she purred, "Promises, promises, promises."

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END CHAPTER TWO OF EIGHT
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