Chapter 1 –The way things are now, and my early life and discoveries
I really have had the most amazing life, and it’s certainly far from over yet. I’ve
decided to write these memories so that others, finding themselves with the same instincts
and cravings that I discovered within myself may be more able and ready to face those same
cravings and use them to make their lives as interesting, as fulfilling and as exciting as
mine has been.
I’m also writing them because I enjoy doing so. I enjoy remembering and recounting all
the amazing, some might think terrible, things that have happened to me and been done to
me in my life. Remembering them and writing about them arouses me and excites me, and my
life has been, really, a search for people and activities that could do that to me. But
remember one thing; all the things that have happened to me, with a couple of notable
exceptions, have been because I wanted them to happen. Almost nothing has been forced on
me.
So, I shall write these memories and, if encouraged, continue this as a journal of the
events and activities that fill my life. A life, it has been said, less ordinary.
I am a forty one year old woman. I am one of those women who are probably the envy of
those other women who, when they look in the mirror each morning, are unhappy with what
they see. I’m fit – I run five miles every day – I still have an outstanding figure,
which unfortunately means that I have to wear two sports bras while I’m running, and while
there are a few lines in my face, they are lines that add character and that are
appreciated by the kind of men I like, since they indicate a woman who has seen life,
enjoyed it and still wants more. My skin is relatively dark and tans readily, due to my
partly Native American ancestry, and my hair is long and still black. I am tall, with a
trim waist, long legs and an “onion butt”. So called, because it makes men cry!
To look at me on the street, dressed in business clothes, you would probably identify me
as what I am during the working day, a successful woman in the city. It’s not self
flattery when I call myself beautiful. I am aware that I am beautiful and for that I can
thank my mixed ancestry, my upbringing and my present way of life.
I’m a highly successful professional woman. I will not describe the field I work in,
because I want to keep these memories anonymous and were I to tell you that, for example,
I was a lawyer, then it might encourage some of my readers to look for a good looking
female lawyer in her early forties with long black hair and large breasts who works in
“the city”. Save yourselves the effort, such an enquiry will lead your nowhere.
However, when I am at home, with my extended family, and, as usual, naked, you would see
another side of my character. My body carries many modifications. I am pierced through
my nipples, both horizontally and vertically, with thick rings crossways and thick
barbells up and down. My nipples are large and actually very long, so I have been
considering having a further piercing performed so that more rings can be inserted. There
is room for them and I always enjoy the experience and what can be done with them
afterwards.
I have a stud both above and below my navel, mainly as decoration, since there’s little
that can be done with them. However, my pussy, or as my family insist I call it, my cunt,
is heavily ringed and decorated, so much so that a full description would take pages!
Perhaps it is enough to say that the permanent weight of all the rings and grommets and
studs that decorate both my inner and outer lips have, over the years, pulled on and
extended those lips until now they hang a full four inches further down than they would
have without the weight of the rings.
My body is marked, almost permanently, with bruises, puncture marks and welts, evidence
of the extreme torments and tortures of which I am so frequently the recipient. When I
look at myself in the mirror I see a woman who’s life is, quite certainly, not like those
of other women.
You see, I am, also quite certainly, a total and dedicated physical and sexual
masochist.
You might wonder how I came to be this way and I have to admit that I really have no
idea at all. Ever since I became a young woman, all those years ago, I have associated
pain and sex and pleasure. I achieve my most intense and overwhelming orgasms when
stringently and helplessly bound, moaning in hopeless pain and humiliation as I am used
and abused and tortured to the point where the pain becomes cathartic and I pass into a
limbo where pleasure and pain are indistinguishable and I wallow joyfully in my dreadful
condition.
Do I enjoy all this, the pain, the degradation, the bondage and torture? Yes I do. I
enjoy it, I need it and I crave it.
As I said, I really have no idea as to why this should be. While I was orphaned as a
child, that happened so early in my life that I have absolutely no memory of my birth
parents at all, so any attempt to equate that “trauma” with my needs and desires is
probably pointless. My parents’ best friends, who were taking care of me while my actual
parents went away on a business trip and died in an aircraft crash, adopted me and raised
me as though I were their own child, and they really are the only guardians I have ever
known. Even now, when they are relatively old, we remain exceptionally close and they
are, in fact, part of my extended family, a family bound together, sometimes literally, by
love of each other and of our mutually satisfying activities.
My adoptive parents, who I shall refer to, from now on, simply as my guardians, or
Johanna and Jack, which is what I still call them, were the most amazingly supportive,
loving and sensible friends and guardians a young girl could ever have hoped to have.
Jack was, and still is, a highly successful businessman. Just how successful I did not
find out until I was a young adult myself, since we did not live in any way
ostentatiously. Our house, while not small, was by no means a mansion, and, while I had
two ponies and several dogs as pets and companions, this was never spoken of as being
something out of the ordinary. Taking care of them and loving them gave me a balance in
my life that I think is missing in the lives of far too many children.
I did go to a private school, but that was because my guardians recognized, more or less
from the time I first began to talk, that I was exceptionally intelligent. They wanted
the best for me and they chose the best school they could find, which was, fortunately,
within fairly easy commuting distance from our house. I had the usual school friends,
most of whose parents were fairly well to do as well, so I had no difficulty fitting in.
I did develop the most intense crush on our athletics teacher, which should have made my
later developments more expected than they were. But half the other girls had a crush on
her as well, so I didn’t think I was in any way unusual.
As I said, my guardians were really the best that a young girl could hope for. They had
absolutely no inhibitions about discussing what I could expect as puberty occurred. In
fact, their matter of fact attitude to sex and love and our bodies made it far easier for
me to discuss things with them than, I now realise, it was for so many of my
contemporaries with their parents. Their openness and realism made my first period a
triumph, something to be glad of, since I was now becoming a woman, rather than the
frightening strangeness that I now know it is to far too many young girls.
I can still remember rushing, still dripping wet out of the shower, into my guardians’
room, shouting “Johanna! Jack! I’m having my first period!”
Johanna’s response of “Oh, wonderful, Amanda, but don’t you think you should get dried
and take care of it?” was a bit of a let down, but really indicative of their pragmatic
approach to all things to do with our bodies.
On top of that, they were fun. Jack had a wonderfully warped sense of humour and that,
with his physical strength and intelligence, his acceptance of me as a person from the
time I could form a coherent sentence and his always available support and help and advice
made me love him more than I could have ever told him. Physically, he was good looking
rather than handsome, with his curly red hair and green eyes and a complexion that, true
to his Scots ancestry, became freckled rather than tanned, much to his occasional chagrin.
His enjoyment of life and his intelligent, droll outlook made him my hero as well as my
guardian.
Johanna was also very intelligent. It wasn’t, again, until I was considerably older
that I realised just how much Jack relied on her for help and advice in his business life.
On top of that she was a really beautiful woman; the prototypical English rose, blonde,
blue eyed, tall and slender, with, and even as a small child I noticed this, a figure that
must have made her the envy of all her friends and acquaintances. My breasts are
wonderfully large, but hers were, and for that matter still are, slightly larger. On her
slender frame they appeared almost excessive.
I suppose most young girls, blessed with a father that they could respect and admire,
would fall in love with him. I can remember that I fell in love with both my parents and,
as puberty worked its magic on my body, I actually lusted after both of them. Not, of
course, that I did anything about it. If nothing else, fear of rejection made such a move
on my part unthinkable.
Strange, looking back on that time from the present, to realise that, had I made my
feelings known to them, they would not have been shocked but would have talked me gently
out of doing anything that we might have regretted later. We have often talked and joked
about it in later years, and wondered how things might have turned out if I had made my
feelings known.
Jack and Johanna had always been absolutely open with me about everything except one
thing; the actual nature of their relationship. All I knew was that, after many years of
marriage, they were as much in love with each other as they had been when they first met.
Apart from that one thing, they kept nothing from me, so I felt quite comfortable
discussing the things that were happening to me as puberty reached its rather awkward
climax. I had started to really notice men and boys and was having daydreams about them.
Remember, this was in the very early days of the internet, so the pornography sites that
are so much a part of the present day net weren’t really readily available, unless you
knew what you were looking for and knew where to look for it. I didn’t, as innocent and
naïve as that may seem to people today. However, my school had a very open and detailed
curriculum when it came to sex education, so boys’ bodies and how they worked were well
enough known. What I wasn’t ready for was my own response to seeing those same bodies
with my pubescent eyes and the totally lustful fantasies that seemed to leap unbidden into
my mind.
I had an open enough relationship with my parents to ask them about it. They both took
it very seriously and discussed it with me equally seriously.
We were sitting around the dinner table when I first bought it up. “Johanna, Jack,
There’s something I really need to talk to you about.”
“No,” said Jack, “You can’t have a sports car!”
“Jack! Please! This is serious!” I drew a deep breath, “I’m really confused. When I
see a boy, especially if he’s good looking, I get all worked up and all I can think about
is sex with him. Then, every time I actually speak to one of them, they behave really
stupidly and the things they say just turn me off.” I hesitated. “Do you think there’s
something wrong with me?”
Jack looked at Johanna. “I’m not backing away, darling, but I think this is one for
you.”
Johanna smiled and reached out and took my hands in hers. “Amanda, what you are
experiencing is perfectly normal for someone like you. Most boys, even the good looking
ones are silly, selfish oafs.” She glanced over at Jack. “There are exceptions, of
course, but, generally, boys mature a lot less quickly than girls, and that’s the problem.
It’s not you, you have normal instincts, but I think you’re hoping that they’ll be as
intelligent and as mature as you are, and, with almost all boys of your age, that’s just
not going to happen.”
She paused in thought. “You know, Amanda, you probably intimidate them!”
“Me!”
“Honey, you’re beautiful, you have wonderful breasts, and that’s something that boys
notice, believe me. You’re intelligent and you’re well spoken. A lot of boys are going
to find that intimidating. They just can’t believe that they’re good enough for you, so
they get defensive and say mean or stupid things.”
“What should I do then?”
“Well, darling, I know you masturbate, and that’s a good way to keep yourself from
wanting to fuck the first willing cock you come across. Eventually, you’ll find someone
who you can respect and who won’t be overwhelmed by you. If you want him to fuck you,
that’s fine. He may even know what he’s doing and actually think a bit about letting you
enjoy yourself too.”
“Oh,” I was a bit surprised, to say the least, by my mother’s blunt words. “Uh, you
know I, um, masturbate?”
Johanna actually laughed at that point. “My sweet little Amanda, if you aren’t
masturbating at your age, there definitely is something wrong with you!”
So, from then on, whenever I felt that I needed some sort of sexual relief, I would
masturbate in my room. Or the shower. Or in the woods that surround our house, which was
exciting because of the possibility of discovery. Or anywhere else that offered privacy
and where I could let my erotic young imagination run riot.
I didn’t know it at the time, of course, but my guardians had a very intense master and
slave relationship. Looking back, I’m quite surprised at my naivety. It should have
been quite obvious and it became obvious when, just after my own eighteenth birthday, I
discovered that I had masochistic cravings as deep as my adoptive mother’s.
Why I never discovered such cravings earlier is still a mystery to me. There’s
certainly nothing magic about being eighteen, and I had been reading pornography and
masturbating prior to that time, and I was fully sexually aware. I had, however, heeded
my adoptive parents’ advice and, while I was as pleasant as I could be to boys of my own
age, it has to be said that I didn’t find them more than superficially attractive and
preferred older men who could think with something other than their testicles.
Why, oh why, is it that males of our species are at their sexual peak when they are
least able to handle it?
It was a couple of months past my eighteenth birthday when I made the discovery that
changed my life. I had been working on a final year school project, which one I can’t
remember at this remove, but it necessitated the use of map pins, the ones with multi
coloured plastic heads. They come in various lengths and the ones I was using were about
an inch long. By that time my breasts had developed to their full size and I was enjoying
them thoroughly. My nipples were very sensitive and if I rubbed them, I would immediately
get wet and aroused. I also enjoyed lifting them and letting them drop, especially when I
watched myself doing that in the mirror. I loved the way they bounced and how big and
round they looked. A few of the other girls in school had breasts as big as mine, but
theirs always drooped and in some cases literally sagged. Mine just bounced and,
secretly, I was a bit smug about that.
I had been absent mindedly rubbing my nipples through my sweater and bra as I worked on
my project and as I grew more excited started to pinch my left nipple between my thumb and
finger. I pressed down hard and that actually hurt. But, instead of making me want to
stop, like any other pain would have, it seemed to go straight to my pussy and make me
even wetter and more aroused.
I pinched harder and was rewarded with even more of that strange, exciting pain. Pain
that felt like pain but at the same time felt totally different, pain that I wanted
because it made me feel so aroused, so excited. I knew immediately that I wanted more and
pulled my sweater off, then undid my black lace bra and let it fall to the floor of my
room.
Forgetting my project I started to pinch and pull on my nipples, deliberately hurting
them. It really hurt and it felt wonderful. I felt my slit becoming wetter and wetter
the more I mauled my nipples. I stretched them, twisted them, and pinched them between my
nails. I was moaning from the pain but also from the deep, pain induced pleasure I was
feeling.
I needed more. I had to have more and I reached for one of the map pins. At first I
only intended to prick my nipple with it, but once I had pulled my nipple out as far as it
could be pulled, pulled it so even my large breast looked like a stretched cone, and
pressed the sharp point of the map pin against the stretched flesh, felt the extra sweet
agony of having my flesh pierced, I could not stop. I pushed the pin into my stretched
nipple, watching as it pushed the skin in and then pierced it so the skin rode up the
shaft of the pin and the metal sank through may pain wracked flesh until it pressed
against the skin on the other side, pushing out a small cone of stretched flesh until it
broke through, wet and shiny from my internal fluids.
Tears were running down my face as I sank down on the bed and nursed my aching, hurting
breast and nipple. I really needed to get at my weeping slit and quickly pulled off my
jeans and underwear. Sitting down naked on my bed, I looked down at my cruelly pierced
nipple and ran my fingers over it, wincing and loving the pain that followed. My cunt
drooling and making a damp patch on the bed covers. My cunt was throbbing, my lips
engorged and, for the first time in my life, the juice was actually flowing from my slit.
I wanted desperately to come, to orgasm, but at the same time I wanted to make the
dreadful, wonderful sensations I was experiencing last longer, to make them last forever.
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