Mistress Rain

High School

Chapter Three High School

My name is Barbara Taylor. It’s a bland and boring name but you can’t judge this book by its cover. I haven’t always lived an alternative lifestyle. Nor have I always been a dominatrix. In pre-teen years, I was a very plain Jane. Prior to the age of 14 what you saw is what you got. But thereafter I started to blossom into a mischievous, wicked little brat.

My name was bland but my mind has always been well beyond it’s years. It’s hard to say who or what I was when I was younger. For a year in high school I maintained an androgynous appearance by keeping my dishwater bland hair in short pixie cut and gender-neutral clothing. Playing softball and volleyball kept everyone off balance as well. It was common to hear gossip among my fellow classmates as they attempted to figure out my orientation.

I heard two girls whisper to one another as I walked past their table in the lunch room, “Is that a girl or a boy?

The other sneered, “I’ll bet she’s gay.”

Taking my studies seriously was important. Others saw me as the studious girl at the back of the classroom with my nose buried in one of my text books. Yes, I appeared to be focused on school subjects but more often than not, my mind was always visiting some far-off land.

My first years on the planet were very boring and predictable. Yes, I was perceived to be introverted but as an only child my parents showered me with attention. Over time this went to my head. If there was something I wanted I got it. If the answer was no I would have a nuclear meltdown. This was a tantrum of biblical proportions which included screaming, crying and throwing things around the room until my demands were met.

It was controlled introversion that I could switch on and off. It was a tool I used to gain attention and sympathy one or as a form of escape from reality when I didn’t like what was going on around me. Manipulative? Yes. I only wanted attention when and how I wanted it. The rest of the time I was happy to be left alone.

Learning to use my tool like a skilled craftsman I’d do outrageous things at one moment then keeping to myself the next. This kept everyone on their toes. Most of my friends in school couldn’t figure me out or what I would do next. Appearing shy and quiet could wield a lot of power. Honestly, staying quiet and looking disengaged can draw more attention to yourself than if you’re the life of the party. Friends, family and even strangers were always asking me, “Why are you so quiet?” “Are you ok?” It was funny how uncomfortable people became just from watching me sit alone in the corner of a room while they were all having the time of their life. I wasn’t conscious of enjoying their discomfort. It started out as a game I would play to see who would be the first to approach me when I appeared to withdraw. Over the years I discovered that using my introverted side could be used to gain the upper hand over men. Many found it to be a torturous method of manipulation.

At the age of 14 my body began to blossom. My boobs seem to grow at enormous rate and along with their increase in size came an increase in unwavering stares from the unrelenting adolescent eyes of all the boys in my school. This gave me the urge to wear tighter sweaters and shirts. You could say I was a teenage prick tease. It was around this time that I started to really come out of my shell. It was in spurts at first. One moment you’d find me completely immersed in one of my text books and the next, you would find this seemingly shy and bashful young lady shocking friends and family. Of course, it wasn’t always things I’d say or do physically. Sometimes it was just my appearance. Drawing attention to myself by doing something out of character like dying my hair purple or saying something outrageous definitely turned a few heads.

I attended high school in the early 2000’s. The music of my era never appealed to me. Punk Rock and New Wave music of the 1980’s had an edgier style that drew me in. Along with it came a bold and brazen fashion that made a statement all on its own. These styles of music merged the edgy leather clad fashions and hard rock sounds of the Punk era with the colorful and shiny spandex styles of the Disco era of the nineteen-seventies. This combined with electronic drums and synthesizers created a brand-new sound and fashion style that spoke to me.

It was the first time in my life I had ever seen strong, sexy and powerful women front a band. Madonna, Cyndy Lauper and Debbie Harry were a few of my favorites. But the female singer who really caught my eye was Joan Jett of the Black Hearts. Here was a woman dressed in head to toe in black leather standing at the microphone like she owned the place and she played guitar. When I first saw her, I was completely awestruck and a little turned on. She was masculine yet feminine and at the same time had a strength and power that most women of that time didn’t exude.

Joan Jett inspired me to buy my first black leather jacket and black leather pants. It was my sophomore year in high school. I had saved $1200 that year working as a cashier at a local grocery store.

After Christmas break I persuaded my girlfriend Carol to drive me to the mall and take me to Jackie-O’s Leather so I could buy the outfit I had my eye on. Jackie-O’s was a locally owned leather clothing shop. They sold mostly leather jackets and motorcycle apparel but at the back of the store they carried a beautiful selection of leather clothing. I always made a b-line after entering the store for the wall display containing sexy leather pants, daisy dukes, corsets as well as jackets.

As we entered the store the intoxicating aroma of leather consumed me. After inhaling the sweet smell deep into my lungs, I grabbed Carol’s hand and led her to the wall where my dream outfit hung on display. It was a pair of black leather pants and a matching black bolero leather jacket each with silver zippered pockets

“There it is!” I exclaimed as I quickly grabbed the ensemble from the wall and showed them to Carol.

“What do you think?”

“Barbara. Wow! That’s really hot. Are you really going to buy them.”

“Hell yeah! Wait here while I go try it on. I want to see if it still fits.”

I scurried over the dressing room went inside and pulled the curtain shut. After pulling on the skin-tight pants and putting on the jacket I threw the dressing room curtain open. When Carol turned around and saw me her jaw dropped. She said, “Oh my God! You’re look amazingly hot!”

We were giving each other high fives when I noticed a couple of guys our age from another school inside the store just staring at me from behind a rack of coats. Typical football jocks wearing varsity football letterman’s jackets and probably cruising the mall trying to pick up chicks.

One of them saw me come out of the dressing room. He was in a daze as he stared at my pants. It was as if he had been hypnotized by the black leather. My heart began to race as I walked towards him. As I approached I noticed his eyes did not move above my waist. The closer I got the lower his eyes went. The pants seemed to be pulling his eyes down like a tractor beam. His unwavering stare at my leather clad legs intrigued me. This was the first moment in my entire life that a boy looked at something on my body other than my boobs or my ass. This guy was completely transfixed on the pants. It was then that I realized how and what you wear can have power over a man. Well, in this case a high school boy.

While standing right in front of him I loudly snapped my fingers and said sarcastically, “Hey! Snap out of it before you drool all over your letterman jacket!”

Carol gasped and covered her mouth with both hands in embarrassment as she quietly said, “Barbara! Stop. Please don’t.”

The young man blinked his eyes a few times as he came out the trance. He slowly looked up at me. As our eyes met his face turned a few shades of red and he said, “Um, sorry. Awesome pants!”

I replied confidently, “Thanks.”

His buddy laughed and called him a dork as he pulled him out of the store by his jacket sleeve.

Carol and I laughed and she said, “Oh my God. Did you actually just snap your fingers at that guy and get bitchy with him?”

“I sure did. You have no idea how it feels to put on a pair of leather pants. They feel amazing. They make me feel so, powerful.”

Enthusiastically she exclaimed, “You have to buy them. You look amazing in them. I am going to save up to buy a pair for myself this summer.”

“Thanks. You should. We will be the leather twins in school next year. Maybe we’ll start our own band.”

That was the start of my leather fetish. Well, I guess you could call it more of a power fetish. The powerful feeling, I get when I step into anything leather is intoxicating.

The band never came about. I wasn’t into the music as much as I was into the fashion. Fashion drew the attention of the boys in school as well as the faculty. It wasn’t just the male faculty members but the female faculty as well. My English teacher, Ms. Davidson took me aside and asked me if my parents knew that I dressed like a slut for school. I laughed at her and said, “I just knew there was a reason you go by Mis instead of Missus. When’s the last time you got laid lady?”

Her face turned bright red as she sent me to the office.

The reactions from people gave me a huge rush of adrenaline. I’ll never forget the time I slapped Marty Linville in face outside of Ms. Kozy’s class room. It was my Sophomore year of high school. Marty made it more than obvious that he was attracted to me because he was always staring at me. Every morning when I walked into school there was Marty inside the front door of the school with his eyes transfixed on me. He never had the guts to talk to me. He would just sit and stare.

A repugnant little troll of a boy, he stood approximately five-foot eight inches tall, was always unshaven and wore a faded maroon leather jacket. His ensemble was always capped off with the same red flannel shirt, faded blue jeans and a pair of tan unlaced Timberland work boots. The laces of his boots were always trailing on the floor behind him as he shuffled down the hall. His only redeeming quality was his piercing blue eyes accentuated by thick black framed eye glasses. His eyes seemed to look right through me on the rare occasion that he happened to glance above my chest and look me in the eye.

One day, after my metamorphosis from wallflower to bitchy brat, I intentionally wore tight leather pants along with a pair of red four-inch open toed stiletto heels that I “borrowed” from my mother, to school just to see what kind of reaction I could get out of him and the other boys. Like every morning at 7:45am, I walked in the front door of the school. As usual there was Marty talking to two of his lecherous friends as I strolled past. Out of the corner of my eye I could see all three of them turn to watch me. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck when I heard one of his buddies say, “Do it! Do it you p***y!”

All of a sudden, I felt someone pinch my ass. I spun around and saw Marty’s hand fall back to his side. The three boys burst out into hysterics which I didn’t appreciate at all. Standing right in front of Marty I composed myself, c****d my right arm back then flung it forward as hard as I could, smacking him in the face with my hand. A loud crack echoed in the hall as my palm hit his left cheek. His glasses flew off of his face and bounced off one of the lockers behind him and clattered onto the floor. As he stood there in stunned silence with a hurt puppy dog look on his face, a rosy red palm print slowly began to appear on his cheek. His piercing blue eyes began to fill with tears as his friends doubled over with laughter. Taking one step towards him I looked deep into his beautiful blues eyes and said in a stern calm voice, “Listen you little freak. Don’t do that again or the next time it won’t be your face I hit.”

His lips quivered as a tear tricked down his nose and dripped onto his leather jacket.

With my heart racing I gathered myself, turned and walked into Ms. Kozy’s room. Slapping him was not my plan of action. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect from him that day but I know I wasn’t expecting him to pinch my ass. All I know is that he definitely wasn’t expecting me to put him in his place. He probably thought I would like having my ass pinched.

A sadistic twisted glee glowed in the pit of my stomach knowing that smacking that little runt in front of his obnoxious friends humiliated him and put him in his place. That sadistic glee blossomed within me over the years and I have called upon it more than once to discipline many unruly subjects both at an early age and as an adult.

From that moment forward I realized that the male of the species has no self-control and that they need a woman at the helm to reign them in. However, that day, as I sat at my desk waiting for class to begin I started to second guess myself. Why did I slap Marty in the face? What had gotten into me? I had never hit another person at any point in my short-lived life. Looking out the classroom window I listened to my classmates slowly fill the room. Over the din of voices, I heard Tracy Robertson, one of the cheerleaders for the football team say to one of her friends, “Damn! She smacked him like he was her bitch.”

I opened my Social Studies book and pretended to be reading one of the chapters when I heard her friend respond, “Yeah. He cried like a b***h too.”

My heart sank. I had humiliated this boy in front of many of our classmates and he would surely be picked on and bullied for the rest of his days of high school. Then there was a tap on my right shoulder. It was Tracy. She sat down in the desk in the aisle next to me, leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “That was awesome how you smacked that little creepy guy Marty. He deserved it and you know it.”

I laughed weakly and said, “Thanks.”

She replied, “Do you know how bad I have wanted to do that to any number of boys in our class that pinch my ass, especially when I am in my cheerleading outfit? You may have inspired a trend.”

Startled, I said, “Please. Don’t start anything. What I did was just a knee jerk reaction. I am not sure why I slapped him.”

As she walked away she looked over her shoulder and said, “Either way, I’ve got your back. If you need anything let me know.”

I didn’t respond. A wave of emotion hit me like a tidal wave. I closed my eyes and it was then that I thought of something that hadn’t entered my mind since the day it occurred. It was a flashback of witnessing my mother beating and berating my father. I had pushed that event into the deep recesses of my mind. As the memory started to come into focus I started feeling sick to my stomach. So, I got up from my desk and ran to the girls-bathroom down the hall and locked myself into the handicapped stall and cried.

Being conflicted helped me to analyze myself and helped me grow into the woman I am today. The ironic thing is, many years later Marty Linville was one of the first clients I interacted with in a professional dungeon. It was a memorable moment that I will tell you about in a later chapter.

From the day forward the girls in my school treated me differently. The boys did too. No one ever pinched my ass again and I became somewhat popular. Some spread rumors. One popular rumor claimed that I was a bull dyke. Another claimed I was a bully who enjoyed beating up boys. How funny is that? As it would turn out, I would in fact enjoy giving a boy or two a good thrashing