Mistress Rain

Preface

Preface

Everyone has a skeleton or two that we keep locked away in the closet.

Their bones rattle around, screaming for their release, but we rarely let them see the light of day.

Most of us wait until long after everyone has else has gone to sleep to visit our old friends hidden among dusty boxes of old record albums, books and family photographs imprisoned in the attic. Quietly tiptoeing up the attic steps and cautiously opening the attic door we pray that the creaky old hinges don’t wake anyone sleeping in their beds below. With our hearts thudding in our chests we creep across the dirty wooden floor boards until we get to the closet. Holding our breath while slowly turning the door knob we let out a sigh of relief when the latch pops and the door opens. Our bodies tingle with delight as we greet our old friends. Several hours pass while getting reacquainted but the fun soon ends when from behind we hear the creaking of the attic steps. Fearing we are about to be outed, we push the bleached white bones back into their cell and slam the door shut only to discover that it was just the cat making his evening rounds.

Others surrender to the screams and unlock the door forever freeing their skeletons allowing the world to see them in all of their glory. For them it is better to live with the repercussions of ridicule, persecution and judgement than to live their entire lives as a lie.

Many of us sit in the dark judging the lady that lives next door when she comes home late at night. In quiet desperation we try to figure out what skeletons she has in her closet. Curiosity runs wild when she brings a male companion home well after the sun has set. The possibilities and situations burn like wild fire in our minds.

The questions run silent and deep, “What could the two of them possibly be doing together so late at night?”

“Is he a lover, a friend or a relative?”

“Could she be a prostitute?”

In neighborhoods around the world, rumor and speculation often run rampant and tear away at the fabric of a community as people try to figure out what skeletons people keep hidden. This overwhelming curiosity, more often than not, leads to insidious gossip. There’s always someone living on the block who piques everyone’s interests because they keep odd hours, appear anti-social or dress in an eccentric manner.

Every community also has that one nosey neighbor who somehow seems to know the that odd and eccentric person living down the street indulges in some form of deviant behavior. With their finger seemingly on the pulse of the lives of everyone on the street they are the self-appointed town crier of gossip. It doesn’t matter where you happen to run into them. It could be while walking the dog or standing in line at the local grocer. Unsolicited, they slither up to you. With a nudge and whisper and no regard for their victims reputation they begin to disclose their unsubstantiated hypothesis. They convincingly weave their tale that the neighbor who lives next door is in fact an axe wielding psychopath who is into demonic basket weaving and sacrifices squirrels to the Goddess of winter at midnight on the third Thursday of the month.

What if the nosey neighbor who sits in shadows of their living room while peering from behind drawn window blinds spying on their brethren actually found out what was really happening in the next-door neighbors bedroom or basement? Would their discovery in fact be as titillating as what their imaginations had concocted or would they be bored to tears? How disappointing it would be, when their curiosity is shattered after they discover that the late-night high-pitched screams of power saws emanating from someone’s basement were simply the tools of an artist creating sculptures from plywood. What if there were no helpless victims bound to a table being dismembered? Would their hopes be dashed if all that they saw was an artist alone in his basement covered in saw dust?

On the other hand, how would they react if they stumbled upon something that was extremely devious and dark? What if they saw something that was forever burned into their minds? Would they be jealous when they saw someone living the life that they themselves wished they could live but didn’t have the courage? Perhaps they witnessed a deviant s****l lifestyle that they had only read about in the back of dirty books and tabloids, a lifestyle still considered to this day to be taboo. A forbidden erotic darkness that is punctuated by the screams of its willing victims pleading for more. A world where only a small segment of the population take up residence. Would the voyeur run in horror after seeing women clad in black leather looming over their male servants or would they sit quietly aroused while shrouded in shadows, their hearts filled with envy?

A demented homeostasis where darkness extinguishes the light and light overcomes the darkness. One can’t survive without the other. Each giving birth to its counterpart. What’s more horrifying, what lurks behind closed doors or what slithers in the deep recesses of our own minds?

As a professional dominatrix, I help people unlock the closet door and embrace their skeletons. Don’t get me wrong, I have skeletons of my own. I have walked the tight rope of living a deviant lifestyle. By day, I played the part of the prim and proper highly educated psychology intern. By night, I was the whip wielding, leather clad femme fatale bringing men to their knees.

But how does someone become a dominatrix? That’s a question that one of my friends asked me. It’s a mystery in the minds of those who are looking in from the outside. Honestly, it’s a mystery to many of us on the inside as well. There’s no clear-cut answer. Each of the ladies I have met over the years who have made this their profession have taken very different paths. For me it was a long journey that started when I was a child.

There is a myth that a dominatrix is man hating b***h who lives her life twenty-four hours a day as a leather clad lunatic who keeps a slave sequestered in a cage in the deep recesses of her basement but that isn’t true. This is a myth perpetuated by the pornographic industry that sells s*x for profit. This myth is very similar to the stories of Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster that we hear about on late night radio with one exception. There are a few people on the planet that actually live the “Dominant/submissive, (D/s), female dominated lifestyle on a twenty-four/seven basis. Yes, some women, and I emphasis SOME women do live this as a lifestyle but they are very few and far between.

The porno industry has men from all walks of life believing this myth. They spend countless hours and thousands of dollars searching for the mythical creature known as the DOMINANT WOMAN. It’s identical to way the media has worked people into such a frenzy about Bigfoot. Grown men and women believe with such unwavering faith that they spend a lifetime searching the forests of Pennsylvania, Ohio and parts of the Pacific Northwest hoping to catch a glimpse of their eight-foot tall furry friend.

The amount of energy it would take from both the dominant and the submissive to live this every day of their lives just isn’t healthy nor is it humanly possible. Have any of you ever tried crawling around on your knees all day as an adult? Well, I have and I can verify that my knees hurt for an entire week after I did.

Can you imagine how mentally unbalanced a woman would have to be to treat a man as an inferior human being on a regular basis? Someone who gets pleasure from keeping her man in a cage only feeding him urine and table scraps is more than likely a few bricks short of a stack. This is a woman who, to spice things up, may one night carve you into little pieces and feed you to her pet Pekingese named Moxie. Please, by all means, keep searching for this woman. I do not object. But you have no right to complain when your tied to her basement floor and you hear her fire up the chain saw.

That being said, I am here to dispel the myth of the dominatrix, the men that pay for her services and to put into focus that each of us have skeletons in our closet. Most only let them out when we are behind closed doors.