Sep. 29, 2017

A Dominatrix----Did I spell it correctly?!?!?

 

Four years ago, I found this chapter among my journals and considered it for My Book. In the final cut, only two encounters made it between-the-covers. No, my life hasn’t been dull, boring, or normal. I tried to fit-in repeatedly but something about me was different. And, I've attracted more-than-a-few "different" men. So, you can read all, some, or none of my revelations...they aren’t for everyone. I don’t write for shock-value… I just refuse to censor the truth.

“Raised in the South, I read Gone With The Wind multiple times. With each reading, I marveled that Scarlett, so pretty, confident, and strong, was determined to win the affections of Ashley, an insipidly weak man. I never wanted weak men in my life yet, somehow they always find me: where I live, play, work, or shop. My life is non-fiction; I am not creative enough--sexually-- to make up the scenarios you are about to read.

Reluctantly, I remember the man who located my Little Rock phone number and called, repeatedly, begging to be my slave. Politely, he requested that I spank him until his butt turned red-hot while calling him “a bad boy who needed to be punished!” He described how he wanted to get on all fours, like a dog, and let me sit on him, pretend he was a stool. Another of his fantasies was to kneel at my feet and give me a pedicure. I admit my curiosity got the best of me and….I finally agreed to meet him, but only for lunch. Not only was he tall, dark, and handsome, he appeared to be a confident gentleman. I wasn’t surprised when he told me he was 25 years younger than me. When I asked his profession, he presented his business card, listing him as a stockbroker. We talked and I learned he had a PHD in business. It was an interesting lunch but, try as I might, I couldn’t play his “fantasy game”, even with his tempting offer of money. Sometimes it’s hell to be poor and a hopeless romantic.

While browsing for shoes in a popular Atlanta department store, I was approached by a man, wanting to help me try on shoes. Dressed in an American Airlines uniform, it was apparent he wasn’t a store employee. Responding to my question, he explained he was an airline pilot. I decided to sit down and try on shoes I’d selected from a sale rack. The pilot found an empty seat and joined me. Removing the shoes I was wearing, I glanced at my seat mate. He wasn’t looking at me; instead, he was studying my feet. He appeared mesmerized as I stood in front of the mirror, deciding if I liked the sale shoes well enough to buy them. The uniformed stranger insisted on sharing comments like, “your feet are very slender;” “you have delicately curved ankles”, and “I’m in love with how your arches look in those heels.” Perhaps, in the beginning, I was flattered by his attention but his submissive behavior, the weird comments, made me nervous. Mutteringnsomething about another appointment, I hurriedly walked away. I’m usually attracted to a man in uniform but, not this one.

Running every morning near the Arkansas River, I began receiving mysterious calls from a man who had, apparently, been following me. From the first phone call, the mysterious caller described my legs and what I was wearing the last time he saw me running on the bike trail. His voice sounded angry as he described his need for me to stand on his chest, kick him, urinate on him, and strangle his neck with my “powerful long legs”! I taped some of his phone calls and, after playing the tapes for the Little Rock police department, agreed to meet the strange caller. Based on the caller's conversations, I perceived him to be a very sick, unstable individual. Sensing my fear, The chief of police assured me that undercover police, in an unmarked car, would follow me to the meeting spot.  The police planned to arrest the caller and end the abusive, possibly dangerous phone calls.
I arrived at the designated meeting spot. The mystery man pulled up in a late-model Mercedes convertible, got out and walked to my car. Glancing inside to make certain it was me, he opened the door and climbed in. Immediately, six policemen, guns pulled, surrounded my car and took control. When I looked into the face of the mysterious caller, I was shocked. I knew his name, his identity…..in fact, I knew his wife. He was a wealthy Little Rock businessman,  married to another Miss Arkansas.

Shortly before my divorce, a prominent attorney from Pine Bluff called my house, wanting to talk about servicing me. Naïve and inexperienced, I couldn’t believe the attorney’s comments. I listened as he described, in detail, how he wanted to be my obedient servant; to wear nothing but a ruffled apron and cook for me; how he wanted to chauffeur me, run errands, wash and dry my hair, shave my legs, and clean my house, in the nude. He called several times and, with each phone call, his words grew bolder. Once time, he confessed his need for rough sex, saying he wanted me to dominate him, that he was ready to submit to my sexual demands, no matter how kinky. The phone calls ended when I mentioned he was being recorded.

For me, the most unforgettable story happened while living in Atlanta, Georgia. One Sunday, leaving the First Presbyterian Church on Peachtree Street, a nicely dressed man smiled, then walked up and introduced himself. He explained that he had been observing me for months as I left the choir loft, walked down the church’s hallway, even climbed into my car. Beautifully mannered, this classic gentleman from a prominent Atlanta family, asked permission to be my “footboy”. Dumbfounded and almost speechless, I heard him describe his wish to chauffer me to appointments, events, even on dates with other men. He glowed with enthusiasm as he asked me to use him as my personal bathmat when I stepped in and out of the shower. Standing on the sidewalk outside the church’s main entrance, I marveled at the nerve of this  deacon and committed church worker, to share his fantasies so near his house of worship. The thought of me using him as a foot stool whenever I climbed out of my car, almost made him cry with pleasure and, quite embarrassed, I looked around to see who might be listening. The more he talked, the more animated he became; I fought the urge to look down... to see if his excitement was visible. Nice looking, but alarmingly weak, this southern man, considered one of Atlanta’s ten most eligible men, wanted to dress/undress me, bath me, help me use the bathroom, even wipe me! For months, I received love letters describing his servitude, imploring me to reward his devotion with bizarre demands. I never responded to his pleadings and, eventually, changed churches. (I have his letters. One appears in my book.)

And, I can’t forget my student at a Virginia High School. The school day was almost over when the student asked to stay after class to talk with me. Everyone had left the room and this normally shy young boy blurted out that he dreamed of me pulling down his pants, whipping him, spanking him until he cried. The more he talked, the more bizarre his behavior became and I quickly ended our talk. At the time, I was an over-sixty teacher and he was a 16 yrs. old student. I had no desire to be "Back in the Headlines". 

So… what ever happened to romance, courtship, and traditional love- making? I know me well; I can't be attracted to passive males. But, regardless of my age, some men like to fantasize that I'm a dominatrix who dresses in black stiletto boots, a tight black-body suit, and uses a  long, black leather-fringed whip on my male footboys, my "slaves."

My life has been a fight-to-the-finish. I've had no choice but be independent. I always knew-better than appear weak so yes, …..I’ve earned the right to be called A Strong Woman. But the most important part of me has never changed. In fact, my Heart is bigger and more loving now… than ever-before. And, always the romantic, I still wait for someone to love me in a “good-old-fashion-way.”


OH,  I do enjoy wearing black and….. I love tall boots and black tights but…. I have no interesting in owning a black whip.

Inflicting pain has never been my pleasure.

Sally Miller