Forfatter Emne: Så trist, så smuk  (Læst 9489 gange)

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Så trist, så smuk
« Dato: Fredag 10 November 2023 20:52 »
Det her er ikke min historie, men en jeg fandt på nettet. Og egentlig er det ikke en historie, men et skriv fra en domina om en Boot Slave hun havde. Det er både en trist og smuk historie . .

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Farewell to my Local Bootslave :

I recently learned that a beloved local client of mine is now deceased. Bill was one of the rare clients who I saw regularly for a period of twenty years.

I feel compelled to write a Proper Kink Obituary for folks like him, since no one else will. It’s also cathartic for me to be able to chronicle his background and memories. It doesn’t matter if no one else reads this. It’s the point of committing his legacy to some sort of digital memory.

Bill (yes that was his real name because it doesn’t matter now), started to see me right around the time that I opened my studio in 2002. He was into heavy corporal discipline and boot worship, which was and is a dream session for me. We quickly changed our times together to something more interesting: Bill was a larger man and he thought it would be a good idea to have me help in his weight loss journey. He embarked on that, with a good modicum of success. Then he stopped seeing me for a period of time.

When he reemerged, the news was very sad. His wife had committed suicide after learning that her cancer had returned for the third time. Her cause of death wasn’t technically listed as suicide, but after Bill shared with me some details, it became apparent that she overdosed on her pain medication. He understood why she made that choice, but he still missed her terribly.

Our sessions transitioned from meeting at the studio, to having dinner in San Francisco and then retiring to his hotel room for a few hours. I rarely do outcalls, but we had an established relationship. Bill was also experiencing mobility issues at this point in his life. Frankly it was easier for us to be able to go somewhere with less stairs and more elevators.

I enjoyed the conversations we used to have over a nice meal. He had difficulties with his daughter, but he loved his grandchildren immensely. When a great grandchild came along, he was elated. He loved hearing about my kinky life and whatever I had going on at the time.

Starting around 2017, I began to notice him forgetting details we had shared repeatedly over the years. When I would chastise him for not remembering these important facts, he would chalk it up to only looking at me and not really listening. I thought that was fair enough. Others have told me how they sometimes stop hearing my words and just get lost in what they are thinking about me at the time. I began to worry when his personal hygiene seemed to start slacking. His clothing was also no longer clean all the time. I chalked this up to him being a lonely, older man who lived alone.

Then during one of the last times we met up in 2019, he forgot where the hotel was located. This was sort of a big deal since he grew up in San Francisco. He knew the city by heart. He eventually arrived, but the phone call to get him back on track was painful. I feared for the worst at that point. Then COVID happened, and everyone went radio silent.

Bill did not use email after 2010. The only way I could reach him was via his mobile number. This number would change from time to time. He called me in 2021 and I was happy to hear that he was alive. We promised to get together when things were better.

Then in September of 2022, he reached out. I was so happy to hear from him! He discussed how he really wanted to see me. I agreed and we said that we would do so after I returned from Detroit. He mentioned that he had moved. When I asked him what city he was in now, there was a pause. “I don’t know.” I pressed him a bit further, and he simply couldn’t ascertain exactly where he was. It was then that I knew my worst fears had come true.

Unfortunately, his number had changed when I tried to contact him again. Earlier this year I set out trying to find out if something bad had happened. I eventually tracked him down to a memory care facility in the South Bay. I wrote him a letter and mailed it to the location. It was returned at the end of June, unopened. DECEASED was written across the front of the envelope.

I’ll miss Bill’s exuberance the most. He hated the part of him that was kinky, but he made sure to indulge it when possible. We would agree that he could smart off during our sessions, but that he would pay for talking back. He used to love to crawl across the floor on his belly, begging to PLEASE kiss my boots! I, of course, would deny him repeatedly. The maddened look on his face was priceless. He had a terrible comb over and it would become impossibly disarrayed every time he would get flustered. He used to cry out, “WHEN IS THIS URGE GOING TO END?” and I would tell him, “NEVER.” That was at 74.

Bill was 80 years old when he died. He loved Broadway plays, and New York the most. Boots were his jam. He was kind to a fault. He didn’t seem to have the level of dishonesty that embodies many of the clients I have interacted with over the past ten years. He never disappointed me. I’d like to believe that he and mucous are chuckling away somewhere in the afterlife, regaling the tales of their kinky time with The Vinyl Queen.