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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 four of eight is W's interview with "Carol."
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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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Carol was almost an hour late for our appointment. I thought that she wasn't going to show up at all and had just about given up on her when she rushed up to the apartment. "I'm sorry, Shelly," she said as she came hurrying in the door. "But my son had a basketball game tonight that went into overtime. I've seen every one of his games since he started playing on the varsity team as a freshman, and I'm not going to break that string in his final year."

As soon as what she said sank in to my brain, I knew that I had grossly underestimated Carol's age. I knew when I first saw her that she wasn't a teenager, but I had figured her age way low. Her body definitely put her in the MILF category. She had dark brown, almost black hair and eyes to match. Her breasts were somewhat small, but well formed with light pink nipples. Her hips were curvy, but firm, and she had the stomach tone of an athlete. If I was remembering right, she had a thick patch of very dark hair between her legs and very prominent labia which protruded from her cunt when she was bent over - which she was during the 'I, Masochist' performance. When I had seen her in her performance cage, and later as I helped Shelly release her from her bondage, I had assumed she was in her mid twenties. But if she had a son who was a senior in high school, that put her closer to forty than twenty, or at least well north of thirty.

"Are you a student at the university?" I asked.

"I'm working on an advanced degree," she replied. "I teach art at my son's high school."

"Does the school know that you were one of Shelly's models?"

"My principal knows. He said that as long as my face never shows up in anything, he would let it slide. I use my maiden name at the university, so it helps me maintain some degree of anonymity. Besides, it's a private school and my husband is a major benefactor. That means I can get away with a lot as long as its legal and I don't get too public."

She looked over at me and then immediately answered an unasked question "Yes, my husband is rich. Very, very rich. It gives me a certain freedom in life I wouldn't have if I were waiting tables at a diner to make a living like my mother did."

"You dress more like a teacher than a model or a college coed." I observed. "You seem very prim and straight. How does being a masochist fit into that?"

"I have an addictive personality," she explained in a very matter of fact way. "As a teenager I was addicted to alcohol and other drugs and ended up in rehab more than a couple of times. That's how I met Gene... screwed up lifestyles of the rich and famous. I wasn't rich or famous, just screwed up but our paths crossed in rehab and we kept in touch."

"What turned my life around was when one of the counselors gave a talk one day and said that some people are just going to be addicted. That's the way it is, and if you were one of those people, the thing to do was to choose something to be addicted to that wouldn't destroy your life. I blew off what he had to say when I first heard it, but later it really helped turn me around. I think he had work or music or art in mind. Gene eventually chose work, but I decided that the weakness I would allow myself was pain."

"So you chose to be a masochist?" I asked.

"I chose not to be a dry masochist," she said with a laugh. Evidently I looked confused, because she explained. An alcoholic whose life is still controlled by alcohol and has all of the characteristics of an alcoholic, but doesn't drink is called a dry alcoholic. There are a lot of dry masochists in the world who actually do - or at least can - get sexual pleasure from pain but don't do intentional pain. Unfortunately, they often end up pairing up with someone who is rough with them during sex or treats them like dirt and humiliates them or mistreats them in some other way. Then the pain is out of their control. I chose to be in control of my pain."

"Have you always gotten sexual pleasure from pain?"

"It isn't so much that I get sexual pleasure from pain as that pain increases my pleasure during sex or in sexual situations. I was a normal child. It wasn't until I was sexually active that I realized that pain added to sex."

"So how did you come to realize that?"

"Back in my drug and alcohol days I occasionally ran with a pretty rough crowd. One time I really needed to score some relief and was out of money, so I traded sex for drugs. The guy wasn't bad looking, but he was dressed like a stereotypical leather biker with all the metal and buckles and all that. I think he was actually gay because he insisted on anal and that I keep my blouse on. I don't think he wanted to see my tits so he could imagine he was fucking a young boy. In any case, he pushed into me rather roughly from behind and started pumping my ass. It wasn't all that bad because he did lube me up pretty good and warmed up and stretched my ass with his fingers. I was actually getting into it a little bit. I wasn't going to climax or anything, but it was bearable. Then he started going all the way in and hitting my ass with the front of his coat as he bottomed out. The edges of his coat were covered with all these little pointed studs that looked like little pyramids - especially along the bottom edge, and they were digging into me with every stroke."

"Suddenly I was on fire. I was ramming myself back into him with every stroke and yelling and screaming for him to fuck me harder. We were downtown in an alley and a group of druggies and street people gathered around and started cheering me on. Finally I came like a I had never cum before and clenched down on that dealer's prick with my asshole. That got him off and he shot into me, but was screaming that I was going to break it off. When I finally calmed down, he pulled out of me and said, 'Damn, girl. You must have already scored something because you are fucking freaked up on something.'"

"I realized that he was right. I had found a drug that was way better than anything he could sell me. I've been clean as far as alcohol or drugs since that night. What nine rounds of rehab hadn't done, a wild anal fuck in a back alley got accomplished. My son thinks I am a prude because I won't drink anything alcoholic and I don't do drugs of any kind." She laughed and continued, "Someday I may have to have a long talk with him about the realities of my life."

"Does he suspect anything?" I asked.

"Well, he does wonder why we keep one door in the basement locked at all the times. That is our play room. As far as I know, he has never been in there, so I don't have to explain the stocks or spanking bench or Saint Andrew's Cross to him. The way the basement is laid out, though, it appears to be just a locked closet. I think the original intent of the person who first built the house was that it was to be equipped as a safe room, or at least a hidden room. You go through a narrow closet-like area into a room about the size of a small bedroom that is concealed between two other rooms and a bathroom. It vents to the outside through the bathroom vent piping and has an escape hatch that you can open into an upstairs closet, but is totally sealed off from the rest of the house. I think it is also sound insulated. I took my son's big radio down there once just to see how far sound carried outside the room. With it turned all the way up, I couldn't hear it at all upstairs, and in the basement it was just a soft noise in the background. I probably wouldn't have even heard that if I had closed the thicker inner door. There is a back to the closet opening that swings into place so the room is truly hidden. With that closed, it appears to be just a closet when you open the door. That's how we normally leave it when we aren't in there. I don't think my son has ever been in that closet, but I am absolutely certain he hasn't been in the play room. There are motion sensor cameras that record everything in there and put it on a hidden disk on our home network." "How often do you use your play room?" I asked.

"Me, or me and my husband?" she asked back.

"Both," I answered. "And what do you do in a typical session down there?"

"I would like to say that there is no typical session, but that isn't true. If the kids are out of the house - like over at a friends, hubby and I will both sort of hint that it has been a while since we played. Then we neck and get each others about half turned on and go downstairs. If Gene is in charge and calling the shots, I usually end up tied facing the cross. That's his favorite. He really likes to see my back and ass turn red. He is an expert with a cane or a flog and can hit exactly where he wants, exactly how hard he wants. I scream and yell and put up a fuss, but I have never said, 'Caboose.'"

She gave me an embarrassed smile. "That's our safeword. It means that my little red caboose needs a break. A couple weeks ago, he worked me over with a crop, and when I was so worked up I was trying the hump the wood to which I was tied, he took me in the ass. I don't like anal unless I get there through pain. If you try to love me up and get in the back door, it ain't gonna happen. But if you turn my ass all red and purple so that each time you thrust into me it is like you are pounding my ass with a paddle, I will go wild."

"Gene loves anal. I prefer regular sex. Neither of us is really into oral. I like doggie style in the stocks after my ass has been properly warmed up. When I'm in the stocks, Gene can reach around and maul my breasts while he takes me and there is nothing I can do about it. That really takes me high. But if I am warmed up properly, I will go high regardless of which position we choose for fucking or which hole Gene ends up using."

My curiosity was peaked, so I asked, "What do you do in your play room solo?"

Carol smiled at me. "I have a spanking machine and a fucking machine. They were Christmas presents from Gene. Obviously, I didn't open that present with the family around the tree. The spanking machine has a whip, a tawse and a paddle. You set the timer for the length you want and sort of lay down on it like you are getting onto a racing motorcycle. Your legs are bent, but slightly back and your upper body is more or less lying across a narrow leather seat. You can also stand at a restraint post, but if I'm on the motorcycle seat, I've got something to hump against."

"The straps on your arms, legs and back tighten when it starts up. The maximum setting is four hours for the bondage and 200 strokes with the spank mechanism. There is a safety button next to each hand that will stop everything and another button that can send out a pre-arranged email, text, or voice message in case something goes wrong. There is also a tens unit built into the machine that can be programmed to buzz you with or without the cane, whip, or paddle."

"The fucking machine is built by the same company and as long as the spanking arm is out of the way, can be used with the restraint portion of the spanking machine. It also can be set to automatic. A couple of times, Gene has strapped me into the restraints blindfolded and then I don't know whether I am going to be fucked or spanked until the machine starts up."

"My favorite for solo play is to combine the fucking machine with electro-pain to my nipples and clit. But you have to be careful. I overdid that once and couldn't think straight for almost a day until the endorphin overload worked its way out of my body. If no one is around the house, and I don't want a high, but just a long leisurely trip through painland, I might go downstairs, put a vibrator in my pussy and strap myself to the restraint for the full four hours with the paddle on a very slow cycle - a good solid WHAP about every five to eight minutes. I've done that a couple of times when Gene was gone on business trips. I timed it so that it would just be finishing the cycle as he got home. I was absolutely warmed up for him and we fucked like rabbits all night."

I decided it was time to get in at least one or two of Dr. Collins questions, so I asked, "Would you please describe your absolutely very best sexual experience ever?"

"That's hard to say," she answered. "I can think of several really good times, but probably the best was in Texas with my husband. It was totally an accident, and it wouldn't be safe to try to duplicate it, but we were out at a small lake on one of his ranches and I decided to go skinny dipping. There wasn't anyone around for miles except him and me. He sat in the jeep on the shore and watched while I swam around for a while skinny dipping in the lake. I came up out of the water dripping wet and horny. I lay down on the beach and raised my knees into a fucking position. Then I humped the air and called out to him, 'I need you between my legs.'"

"He laughed and shucked off his clothes, came over to me, and got down to business. I was already wet and ready, so he just plunged into me and started pumping away. I was starting to go high when suddenly I felt a really hot needle plunge into my ass. And then another plunged into my side. Evidently I had lain down near a fire ant nest and some of them had found me. I don't think I could have handled a whole nest of them attacking me, but the couple that were biting me were driving me up higher than I had ever gone. I was yelling 'Ants! Ants! Ants!" as I thrust myself up against my husband. Luckily, I climaxed before one of them crawled up far enough to bite him. When that happened, he screamed and jumped up off of me and started swatting the ants off of me with his hands."

"He pulled me up to my feet and brushed a couple of more ants off my back. 'You were shouting ants, but I had no idea what you were yelling about until one of those bastards bit me on the ass. I'm sorry I didn't realize what was happening.'"

"'I'm sorry you stopped,' I answered. 'There were just enough of them to take me all the way up into painland.'"

"'A few more bites and they could have taken you up into heaven. Fire ant bites can kill you.' he said. 'You really don't want to mess around with them.'"

"He explained that if we had been really close to the nest, they would have swarmed us and we could have ended up with hundreds, if not thousands, of bites and that would have been enough venom to do some serious damage. I would never attempt to duplicate what happened, but it was marvelous sex while it lasted."

"What about your absolutely worst sexual experience?" I asked.

"That would be back in my drug and alcohol days," she answered, "But I would have difficulty choosing just one experience. In all likelihood, my absolute worst happened when I couldn't even remember it. I do remember waking up naked in an alley behind a club one morning. I was stiff and sore with bruises and welts all over me. I was covered in cum and I smelled like piss. The hospital was about eight blocks from where I was. I walked up there just like I was. It got their attention in ER when I came through the doors looking like that."

"They were all, 'Have you been raped? Are you willing to talk to the police?' and all of that social work nonsense. I told them, 'I have no idea what happened to me, but I was probably a willing participant, or at least a willing user of whatever drugs were being passed around.' Then I told them that what I really needed was treatment for my injuries and in-house rehab. It didn't take, but it was during that round of rehab that I met Gene - and the counselor who told me the truth about myself - that I was always going to be addicted to something. Now my only addiction is pain, and that is sort of self-limiting and becoming more so as I get older."

"So why did you agree to be a model for Shelly?," I asked.

Carol turned a light shade of pink. "I had this fantasy about my students watching me in pain bondage,' she said looking very guilty and sheepish. Then she said firmly, 'I would never do anything with any of my students. I don't do anything with anyone but Gene these days, but the thought of my students watching me on a trip to the heights of painland was becoming an obsession. I figured the only way I was ever going to get it out of my head was to actually do it in some way where my students didn't know it was me." She laughed, "But there was no way that was going to happen."

"Then Dr. Collins asked if any of us were interested in modeling for Shelly. I had heard a couple of the seniors in my class talking about one of Shelly's earlier shows. They were describing the three models in that show in explicit detail, down to comparing the relative sizes of their pussy lips. That was the kind of intense watching that I had been fantasizing about, and I knew they would also be coming to this show. I couldn't let the opportunity to fulfill my fantasy slip through my hands. All I had to do was make sure that I couldn't be recognized and that I would remain totally anonymous."

"Since I like being bent over in the stocks, Shelly suggested I be the 'wall head,' as she called it. She had already been toying with the idea of just a body - no head at all on display in a couple of the cages. If those plexiglass panels on the end had been clear, you would have seen my head and my hands sticking through the wall like I was in an old fashioned set of stocks except that everything was covered in black felt to prevent light reflection. The holes were padded so I wouldn't hurt myself if I pulled against the openings, and it really wasn't at all uncomfortable. Plus, it totally hid both my head and my hands. I am always guessing who people are at Halloween parties because they totally conceal their faces and leave their hands hanging out totally exposed. My head and my hands would be totally hidden."

"I knew, however, that on that stage, what you hide at one end, you show at the other. Being bent over like that completely revealed my pussy to everyone who walked by. That was terribly embarrassing. I've been naked in public before, but not like that. I mean, in reality, you really can't see all that much on a woman who is standing up, but when she is bent over and her cunt lips are hanging out there, you can see everything she has."

"At one of the shows, I was already pretty turned on by the stimulation from the electro units, and I could feel my pussy juices running down my legs. I could also feel that my cunt was actually gaping slightly so if someone looked straight at me, they would probably see all the way up to my cervix. I was thinking how embarrassing this was when I heard two young men talking to each other. They were behind me, so I couldn't see who they were, but one of them said, 'Wow, she looks like a younger version of Mrs. Dawson. I could really get it on with her.' The other replied, 'I wouldn't mind getting Mrs. Dawson in that position.'"

"I went into an immediate orgasm. Not only were two of my students watching me and lusting after my body, they thought the naked me was a younger version of me. I was really glad that I wasn't just in a leather hood. Since they recognized the shape of my body, they might have absolutely realized it was me if they had seen my hands or the shape of my head or the color of my hair. Collar and cuffs don't exactly match, but they are both natural."

"I'm pretty sure I know which two students these boys were. I only hope that I can keep a straight face when I see them in class this year. And speaking of class, I have to get home and get papers graded for tomorrow."

I thanked her and asked if she was willing to sign the release forms so that I could connect names to stories for Dr. Collins. She said, "I thought that was a given when we talked to you," and I answered, "but what if you said something you didn't want Dr. Collins to know?"

She just laughed and signed the card.

After she left, Shelly came into the room and said, "Did I ever tell you that I had a terrible crush on my high school math teacher? Mr. Evans was only like 24 or 25, but for a girl who is a high school junior, that is a mature man. If he had asked me, I would have let him fuck me right there on his desk in front of the whole class. But he wasn't interested in me, at least he never did or said anything to indicate that he was."

She smiled and then gave a low, sultry laugh. "Why don't you come into the bedroom and see if we can solve a few equations together."

That was one of the only times I could ever remember looking forward to doing some late night homework.

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END CHAPTER FOUR OF EIGHT
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