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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 six of eight is W's interview with "Ellen."
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WARNING SPECIFIC TO CHAPTER SIX OF EIGHT

This particular chapter deals with child abuse and the adult fall out from such abuse. Although it is essential to my look at masochism, it is not absolutely essential to the story. If you would be upset by the depiction of cruelty to minors (not sexual) then I would advise skipping this chapter.

However, if you want to read an erotic story of recovery and redemption that walks through the paths of hell, please read on.

Again, this story is a composite formed from the stories told by several different people whom I have met, and is not intended to represent or reflect any given person. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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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 had some other weekend business I had to take care of, so it was two weeks before I could arrange to meet with Ellen. I really didn't know how to read her. I remembered her from the performance. She had hung almost quietly in her cage and swung slowly with the pulses. It was almost like she was enduring it rather than getting pleasure from it. I had even asked Shelly if she was sure that the girl in the third cage really wanted to be there.

Whether it was pain or pleasure for her, it was still erotic as hell for anyone watching, including me - especially after her naked body became totally covered with a thin sheen of sweat. In the soft light which illuminated her cage, it was apparent that Ellen didn't have any tattoos or brands, but she did have scars. Once she started to perspire, very light lines criss-crossed her back and buttocks. Some were even visible on her front. That kind of scar comes from flogging - a severe beating with something wide and flat like a man's belt. I knew that Ellen's story was going to be interesting and probably very tragic.

When she arrived, she was conservatively dressed and very quiet. She was wearing a skirt that hung almost to her knees and was wearing rather thick, dark stocking. If it wasn't for the fact that her arms were bare when she removed her jacket, I would have wondered about whether or not she was hiding bruises from current abuse.

After a few innocuous comments she took a deep breath and asked, "So, where do we begin?"

"I'm not sure," I answered. "I have a list of questions from Dr. Collins and a couple of my own that are supposed to guide our conversation, but I think I am going off the list for the first one. "Ellen," I asked, "do you get any pleasure at all out of pain? It almost looks like you are suffering real pain and getting nothing in return. I can't imagine why you would allow that. Do you feel pleasure? Do you think that you are supposed to suffer? Or is it something else?"

Her face became even more expressionless. "Pain isn't pleasure," she replied softly and slowly. Then pausing as if to carefully select her words, she continued, "Pain is the battering ram that enables me to feel pleasure."

"You've totally lost me there," I replied. "Could you please explain a little more clearly what you mean?"

"I've talked to the other girls," she said with a wry smile. "They all seem to have been born this way. I wasn't born this way, I was brutally changed into what I am."

"How?" I asked when she remained silent.

"I was abused as a child... and as a young adult. It wasn't sexual abuse - not really. Dad wasn't kinky, he was just a very damn mean drunk... and he was never sober. I was the oldest, so I put up with it the longest. I have two younger sisters. I tried to protect them. I would distract dad so they could get in the closet if we were trapped upstairs or hide in the basement if we could get to it. There was a crawl space under the porch that had a small opening from the basement that was covered with a louvered door that acted as a vent to keep it dry under there. Dad couldn't get back in there because the opening was too small. It was full of spiders and bugs and once in a while rats and mice, but it was better than letting dad catch you when he was drunk. I lost it as a hiding place when I was about twelve and got too big to fit through the vent. After that, it got really bad for me."

She looked at the floor in silence. I couldn't think of anything that should be said, so I waited for her to continue. "It was a small town down south, and daddy's family had a lot of money and power, even if he had pissed away everything that he personally had. His brothers and cousins covered for him. Half the town was related to him. The sheriff was his uncle and most of the deputies were cousins. Worst they would ever do was to take him downtown to sleep it off. Nothing ever got written up, so the state never heard of it."

"When I was eight or ten, even before things got really bad, I had learned to turn everything off to get through it. Once I turned everything off, he could beat on me all night, and I wouldn't feel a thing. But the price for that was that I couldn't feel anything - ever. After a while, I couldn't really turn it back on. There was no pain, but there was no pleasure. Everything was just a dull sensation on the other side of a wall. I was able to endure and I saved my sisters from most of it, but when Joanie got too big to fit through the trapdoor to the porch, Momma knew she had to do something. Dad chased Joanie down into the basement and caught her when she couldn't get under the porch. He whaled on her with his belt for ten of fifteen minutes. I was upstairs in my bedroom, but I could hear her screaming."

"Daddy must have got tired or thirsty or something because he came back up to the kitchen yelling for Momma to get him a beer. When he opened the basement door, she was standing there with his shotgun. She pulled both triggers at the same time and put two deer slugs though his chest. They went all the way through him and came out through the steps going upstairs and kept going and smashed the glass on the front door. I came running downstairs and into the kitchen. Momma's only comment was, 'I think Uncle Saul is going to have to write that one up.'"

Ellen looked like she wanted to laugh or cry or both, but she pulled herself together and said, "They put Momma in the state hospital for the criminally insane and sent my sisters into foster care. I was 18, almost 19, so I was put in temporary care and then set up with my own apartment so I could finish high school. But the damage was done. I can't enjoy sex - or anything else - unless something breaks down my wall. Once it is down, I can feel things - pain, pleasure, sex, whatever, but so far, the only thing that can knock down that wall is pain."

She got quiet and I said, "I'm supposed to ask you when you first knew you were different and what your worst and best sexual experience were, but I don't think those questions apply." She continued to sit there quietly and stare at me so I asked. "How about you talk about how and when you first figured out that knocking down the wall had something to do with sex and how you know that only pain will do it."

"I think I can answer all three questions," she said rather flatly. "I'm not exactly sure how old I was when I built the wall... like I said, maybe eight or ten. It happened about the same time where it got to the point that all I was really interested in was protecting my baby sisters. When dad would come home drunk and go into one of his rages, I would hustle them down into the basement and put them up into the crawl space. Then I would wait for dad. Like I said, it was never sexual with him - at least not in anything like a normal way, but he liked me to be naked when he beat me. I think it was just so he could hear the belt smack against my skin and could watch the welts form. Before I got old enough, he used to beat Mamma naked, but then he turned his attention to me. I guess I was protecting Momma, too, by letting him beat on me."

"At first, he would tear my clothes off. But that would ruin them, and I didn't have that many clothes. So after a while, once I got the girls hidden, I would just take off my clothes and wait for him. I would stand there in the middle of the basement naked and go off as far as I could behind my wall."

She looked up at me, and her face was totally blank. I think she was talking to me from somewhere behind that wall as she spoke.

"It was my junior year of high school, about a week after my 18th birthday. I had been held back a year in school because the teachers said I was emotionally unready for junior high. I think they were just making sure that I didn't get a chance to talk to the new counselor at the middle school. She only lasted a year and got replaced by someone 'from the community.' Then it was safe for me to be there."

"Anyway, it was early spring, but already really warm. I had been outside spading the garden with my younger sisters, and we were all hot and sweaty. When it got dark, the girls and I went inside. We thought dad would be at work until the end of second shift, but the plant closed early for some reason and he had stopped at the bar for a couple of hours before coming home. He was sitting in the kitchen drinking a beer and cussing at Momma when we came in the back door."

"I yelled for the girls to run and we bolted for the basement door. I stood at the top of the steps and held onto the doorhandle to give them time to get under the porch. When I let go, Daddy pulled the door open and grabbed me. He dragged me back up into the kitchen and then into the living room. Momma was cowering in her chair crying like she often did when Daddy was in one of his moods. Daddy dragged me over to in front of her and yelled at me, 'I think its time that your mother saw you get a proper punishment.' and he started tearing off my clothes."

"Momma kept saying 'Please don't. I'll give you the best blow job you ever had if you let her alone. I'll let you fuck me in the ass. I'll even let your poker buddies do whatever they want to me Friday night. Just leave little Ellen alone.'"

"Daddy yelled at her, 'She ain't no little Ellen any more.' He flipped me over and forced my legs open so that my cunt was facing Momma. 'See that hair,' he yelled, 'she is a grown woman. Maybe I ought to make her suck me off or maybe I'll fuck her in the ass.' That was the only time that daddy ever said anything sexual about me, and I think he was only saying it to hurt momma."

"Momma started crying and wailing,'No, no.' and she got up and started taking off her clothes. She went into the kitchen and came back with a stick of butter. She knelt over the couch and set the butter up against her asshole. 'Husband, look at me,' she said. 'I am preparing myself for you.' And then she shoved that whole stick of butter up her ass."

"Daddy was beating me with his belt and I was curled up in a ball in the middle of the floor. I think my back was bleeding, but I wasn't sure. It was one of the worst beatings Daddy had given me in a long time. 'Beat me or fuck me,' Momma cried, 'But leave her alone.'"

"Daddy stopped beating on me and went over behind Momma. He dropped his pants. That was the first time I had ever seen my Daddy naked. He had a really small penis, or at least it was much smaller than anything I had ever seen on the internet. I know that a lot of those male models are extra big, but Daddy wasn't much bigger than my thumb. Maybe his meanness was just him making up for having a such a small dick. He pushed into Momma in one stroke and started humping. She just knelt there."

"He didn't take too long to finish, and when he pulled out, he slapped her on the ass real hard and yelled, 'Get upstairs woman. You still owe me a blow job.'"

"Momma jumped off the couch and ran upstairs. Daddy walked over to the stairs and then looked back at me and said, 'Your day's coming, little Ellen. One of these days it will be you kneeling on the couch getting your ass pumped.' Then he went upstairs."

She paused at looked at me with her totally expressionless face. "Do you know what I did then?" she asked.

I was thinking how often I had been asked that question during these interviews, but that was for my inner thoughts or a later conversation with Shelly. "No idea," I replied.

"I lay there on top of that pile of my torn up clothing and Momma's dress and underwear and I masturbated myself to climax. It was the first time I ever had an orgasm. It was the first time I had ever felt anything sexual. Daddy had beaten me to the point where I couldn't block out the pain, and I realized that if I couldn't block out the pain, I couldn't block out pleasure either. I knew it was then or never. And I knew that the only way I could ever feel that kind of pleasure again was to first endure the pain. When I finished I opened my eyes and my oldest little sister was standing there. She was crying and saying, 'I don't fit anymore. I can't get into the hidey place. It was a couple weeks later when Momma loaded the shotgun."

"So was that your worst sexual experience?" I asked.

Ellen laughed. "No, that came later after Daddy was dead. I finished high school and then ran away. I guess you can't really say I ran away since I was 19 and there wasn't anyone to run away from. Maybe I was running away from memories or the town or myself. I don't know. I heard that there were a lot of jobs paying good money out in North Dakota so I headed out there."

"There were a lot of jobs, but not very many of them were for women, unless you count strippers and hookers. I can't dance for shit, and even in a low-class strip joint you have to be able to move a little bit around the pole without tripping over your own feet. And I didn't think I was ready to go pro, so I ended up working as a waitress in a truck stop."

"They called it a truck stop, but it was actually a fueling depot for the company trucks that also sold gas to rigs coming in off the road. There were three or four big barracks-like buildings to house construction workers that all connected to the diner area. Construction went 24/7 so we were open 24/7. From one o'clock on there was almost no traffic from the highway, but there were always fifty or so workers wanting an evening meal or beer. We didn't sell anything harder than beer and wine."

"One night something happened at the construction site and they sent the night shift home. I don't know what it was, but we had two or three times the normal load and the other waitress on my shift had called in sick. I was running my ass off trying to keep up with the orders. I didn't realize it, but I was sweating really hard, and my thin, off-white outfit was starting to turn transparent. Because of the summer time heat, I wasn't wearing a bra and had on a very small pair of panties, so without realizing it, I was starting to put on a pretty good show. I did notice that none of the men seemed to be leaving after they finished their meal."

"Finally after I got everyone served and was going from table to table making sure that everyone had paid their checks, I asked one of the tables, 'Why are you guys hanging around here? Don't you need your sleep tonight?'"

"A smart aleck at one table said, rather loudly, 'We are all hanging around watching you run around naked and wondering what it takes to tire you out.'"

"Everyone in the place laughed. I still didn't realize that I was effectively standing there naked when I answered back, 'Honey, you could never tire me out.' It sounded like the whole place said, 'Ooooh,' and so I looked up at all of them and said, 'That goes for all of you. The whole bunch of you couldn't tire me out.'"

"I don't know if I meant it in a sexual manner or not, but it suddenly got very quiet in there. One of the men said, 'I'd be willing to pay $100 to see if I could, little Ellen. I bet I'm man enough to tire your out.' He called everybody 'little something,' so that didn't mean anything, but being called 'little Ellen' brought back all sorts of memories. All of a sudden I wanted to see if enough sex would break down my wall. I grabbed the big tip jar off the counter, walked over to the pool table and stripped. It wasn't until then that I realized just how transparent my outfit had become."

"As I took off my clothes, I set the tip jar on a stool next to the table and said, '$100 a try. Any hole. No more than three at one time. If you are the one to tire me out, you get five times your money back.'"

"Jimmy, the manager said, 'Ellen, are you sure your want to do this?'"

"I lay back on the pool table and said, 'What does it look like?'"

"I don't know how many men I took on that night. I lost count after twenty-seven blow jobs, but I never really kept track of how many fucked me or took me in the ass. I know that several times I had somebody in each hole. They put me on the floor for that. It was starting to get light when big Sam stopped to refuel before heading back east. He drove a transport and brought big parts for the drilling rigs in from the east coast. I saw him come in the door and everybody got real quiet. He went back outside and then came right back in carrying a big blanket. Everybody called him 'Big Sam' or 'Good Sam.' Big Sam because he was huge. Good Sam because he was always helping people. Once in a while someone would call him Preacher Sam, but never to his face."

"He walked up to the pool table and everybody scattered. He picked up the tip jar and scooped up the money that was scattered around it on the floor. 'Put it in a sack,' he said to Jimmy. There was something about his voice that made you know that you would be in real trouble if you didn't do exactly what he said."

"Jimmy put the money in a paper bag, and brought it back and gave it to him. Then Sam wrapped the blanket around me and picked me up over his shoulder and walked out to his truck. He set me on the bed in the sleeper in the back of his cab and said, 'You lay there. Sam will take care of this.' and we drove off."

"He stopped at another truck stop about fifty miles away and picked me up again and carried me in a side door. 'Sally!' he yelled as he came through the door. A middle-aged black woman came scurrying up to him. 'Clean her up and dress her,' said Sam."

"Sally took me into the shower area and pushed me under a shower, blanket and all. 'You smell like the floor of a whore house,' she said. 'Sam must have gotten to you just in time. You can trust him, honey. Good Sam likes to help people like us. He will do good for you. He did for me.'"

"By the time I was dry and dressed, Sam had ordered breakfast to go for both of us. As he walked me back to the truck, he said, 'You've got family or somebody somewhere. Just tell me where, and I will take you there. It may take a little time to get a load going that direction, but I will get you where you need to be."

She smiled at me. It was the first expression on her face since she had started speaking.

"My aunt lives here in town. I told him about her and about Momma and Daddy and my little sisters. He teared up while we was driving down the road. I asked him, 'Why do you do this?'"

"He answered, 'You aren't coming home in a box.'"

"I didn't understand, but then he continued, 'My baby girl ran away when she was in high school. We never knew for sure what had happened, but something happened at school that she couldn't handle and she left. Police found her by the side of the road two weeks later. She had been dead for over a week. They wouldn't let us see the body. Probably not enough left of it to recognize anyway... just a big cardboard box inside a casket. That's all I got to see.'"

"His voice sounded like he was trying not to cry as he continued, 'They never caught him. Young girl hitch hiking alone, it could have been anyone. Nothing I can do about that, but I can see that there is one less baby girl to come home in a box. You are not going home in a box. You put your life back together, hear. You can do it. Do it for my baby girl.'"

"That was my worst sexual experience, but one of the best things that ever happened in my life. Aunt Sophia is mom's sister. She said that she always wanted to help, but was too afraid of my daddy and his family. She didn't try to get me or the girls afterwards because she had been warned to stay out of it by his uncle, the sherif."

"I stayed with her for a while until I got settled at the university. There was thirty thousand dollars in that paper bag. At a hundred dollars a pop, that means 300 men. Maybe it was that many, but I think Good Sam put some of his own money in that bag before he gave it back to me. He's never tried to get in touch with me, but I've kept myself together for him and his baby girl."

It was getting late, so I started to go into my "If you are willing to sign this card," routine, but she cut me off.

"'I have to tell you about my best sexual experience,' she blurted out. 'It's important.'"

What could I say except, "OK."

"It was the Friday night that the performance first went real. My boyfriend came to see the show. I met him in an abuse support group. His childhood wasn't much better than mine, but he is much farther along the path to wholeness. He understands. He tried to talk me out of doing the show, but he understands. Anyway, after the show, he walked me out to his car. We were parked in the lot behind the studio. We were going to go straight home, so I was wearing just a robe. I was all sweaty and tired from the performance, but I could feel the cool breeze blowing up under my robe. I shivered slightly, and he asked what was wrong. I said, 'The breeze coming up under my robe is cool, that's all.'"

"Suddenly I realized what I had said. I was FEELING the breeze. His car was parked in the corner of the lot alongside the building. It was dark and there was no one else there. Suddenly, I leaned on the hood of his car and said, 'Fuck me. Now! Please! While I can feel it. Make love to me!'"

"Like I said, he understands. He took me from behind, but he was gentle and loving, and it was wonderful. I tried real hard not to make any noise, but I saw several lights go on in the second floor apartments after I climaxed. We jumped in the car and he drove me home. That was my best sexual experience."

"He bought a tens unit and we have done some electro play since then. He turns it up very slowly until I just start to feel it. Then he strokes me and rubs my back and kisses me. He says he is training my body and weaning me away from the pain. It takes less and less intensity until I can feel him stroking me. Sometimes when we just kiss, I can almost feel it and it feels so good."

"Tell Dr. Collins," she said, "that some of us really are sick, but we can get better. I've never gotten pleasure out of pain. Pain was just the price I had to pay in order to feel anything. That is sick. I am glad I am getting better."

"I'll tell him," I assured her.

After she left, Shelly came into the room. I told her. "I just want to go to sleep tonight." She raised an eyebrow at me, and I answered her unasked question, "Sometimes you have to put some distance between yourself and the demons of this world before you can go on with your life."

She nodded her agreement and we went into the bedroom.

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END CHAPTER SIX OF EIGHT
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1 comments

anonymous readerReport

2013-11-09 12:23:53
فديو جزائري

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