Farmhouse Chronicles

Farmhouse Chronicles

Femdom Fun

Preface

My Baroness and I have this thing. There's this special communication between us. When she's in the mood and the time suits her, she addresses me by the appellation "slaveboy." We instantly set aside our real-world selves, by mutual agreement, and enter a fantastical femdom (female dominated) world. She morphs into my Dominant Baroness, a title I revere. The simple proclamation of that one word, "slaveboy," and she's transformed into my owner, my Mistress, my Domme, my Goddess...my Baroness. And I become her property, her slave, her servant, her submissive and obedient boy toy. I relinquish my free will and place my fate in her magisterial hands.

And then, with another simple communication, at a time of her choosing, she'll call me "Sluggo," an affectionate name she'd call me in the real world. And from that instant on, we abandon the alternative universe of femdom entirely and return to our real-world selves in the here and now.

In our fantasy world she expects strict adherence to obedience and obeisance. I like to think that my unquestioning servile behavior genuinely fuels her libido, that my adulation brings her personal titillation. I sense that it does. I know my subservience to her brings ME a great deal of joy. We both know how it turns me on when she becomes my Dominant Baroness and when I submit to her.

To embark into this special relationship of Baroness/slaveboy, it is only she who can initiate the action. Full-blown, intricately orchestrated, elaborate scenarios (you'll read some here!) are not the norm between my Baroness and me. Far more frequent are "quickies"...brief but potent little reminders of the control she wields. She might conjure up short little excursions into our femdom world anywhere, anytime.

Quickies

It's not uncommon when we we're dining out with friends that she'll whisper confidentially to me, "Order me another glass of wine, slaveboy." It strikes a nerve in me immediately. I get all excited, and she knows it. I'll hail a waiter, point to her glass and susurrate, "The lady will have another." The waiter acknowledges. I make eye contact with my Baroness, as if to say, "mission accomplished," and she whispers to me, "Thank you, Sluggo," ending the scenario with that familiar address. And that's it. Probably a thirty second role play, in public, indiscernible to any outsider, yet so potent between us. These brief little exercises reinforce the dynamic of owner and property.

Occasionally, out of nowhere, my Baroness will declare, "Slaveboy - inspection!" That means I'm to strip off all clothes and stand at attention (feet shoulder width, hands clasped behind me, shoulders back, stomach in, chin up, eyes straight ahead) so that she might inspect her property. Sometimes she'll do a quick eye exam and then release me. ("That's all, Sluggo.") Or she might stand up and circle me a few times. If something is amiss, she might dole out a correction. For example, if my pubic hairs are not satisfactorily coiffured, she might make me bend over her lap and give my bottom a hand spanking. Likewise, if my posture doesn't meet her standards, I'm likely to receive some well-deserved swats on my rear. Poor posture nearly always elicits corporal correction.

I've always been grateful when she takes advantage of brief "fetch" plots. Out of nowhere, she'll tell her slaveboy to fetch something for her. Often, it's a beverage or something to snack on. "Bring me a cup of tea, slaveboy." I'll get it, deliver it (on knees) and she'll release me from my servitude with a simple, "Good boy. That's all, Sluggo." As short and sweet as that! These tiny tasks are enormously pleasurable to me and, I think, empowering to her.

There are the magical moments when my Baroness orders me, "Slaveboy, kiss my shoe." Or "Slaveboy, lick my boot." I hit the ground on all fours faster than a stone sinks in water. I perform the task eagerly. She usually releases me from the task quickly, with a "That's enough. Get up from there, Sluggo." These brief acts of deference always make me feel humbled and enslaved. I think they make her feel powerful.

She might be preparing some food and when I walk through the kitchen she'll say, "Slaveboy, put on some music." I'll drop whatever I was doing (which is part of the deal) and immediately tend to her command, first by asking if she has a preference. If not, I'll select something, get it going and then return to confirm her satisfaction. She'll usually say, "That's fine. Good job, slaveboy." Then she'll pause and add, "Thank you, Sluggo." And again, with that appellation she'll dissolve the Domme/sub relationship, without a further mention. Of course, if she's feeling mischievous, she might tell me that my musical choice is not what she wants, in which case I must guess again, proving to both of us that I'll do anything she tells me to do.

I recall once when, out of nowhere, she pointed to me and said, "Slaveboy. Go kneel under the stairwell. Bury your nose in the corner. For five minutes. NOW!" The command was so out-of-left-field, I felt compelled to react.

"But I didn't do anything wrong."

"I know," she explained. "I'm sending you there because I can. And because I like it when you obey me and prove to me that you'll do anything I tell you to." She paused.

"And because you questioned me, make it ten minutes."

Occasionally she decides to place me in bondage. "Slaveboy...go fetch the rope," she might say. I'll dutifully go fetch a little bag of soft, nylon rope (part of our femdom accessory stash), two pieces of about three feet in length, one about twelve feet. After making me strip naked, she'll typically wrap the long piece around my torso, binding my upper arms snugly into my sides. She's deliberate in tying a secure knot. Then she'll bind my ankles with one of the shorter pieces. And then my wrists, usually behind my back, with the final segment of rope. Once she's done binding me and has me sitting on the couch immobilized, she enjoys making out with me. Lots of caressing. Lots of kissing. She'll lick my nipples with a fluttering tongue. She'll challenge me to escape. She likes to mock me with baby talk. "Is my little man all tied up? Are you stuck? Try to escape!" And when I can't she reminds me that I am her captive, her prisoner, her property, and that she'll do anything she wants to me. Then she'll fondle my incapacitated body. While we kiss. At a moment of her choosing, she'll untie me and tell "Sluggo" to return the ropes to their proper storage, as though nothing had happened.

There are little chores that she'll assign her slaveboy, on a moment's notice. Trash take-out, tidying up some countertop, watering a houseplant, emptying the litter box chopping up greens for dinner, giving a toilet a quick brushing. She'll address me as her slaveboy, describe the task, and away I go. I'll always report back when done. And, usually, she'll thank me and dismiss me from my servitude with a friendly, "Sluggo." If not, I know there's more to come.

I always relish these little scenarios. With each, she cements her authority and reminds both of us that, on a whim, she can create a Domme/sub universe. In an instant, she can become my owner, my superior...my Dominant Baroness. And I will become her property, her slave and obedient boy toy, relinquishing all free will. I never tire of her directives. She has yet to weary of issuing them.

Following are some of my favorite recollections of more intricate and involved scenarios that she's created. If you're a man who understands why you should serve women or if you're a woman who understands why men should serve you, proceed. If not, now would be a good time to find an alternative form of entertainment.

Hanging Out

The Guest Bedroom

"Obedient slaveboy.

I belong to the Dominant Baroness forever.

Please, I beg you. Be gentle with me!"

Over and over, I'd been repeating those phrases as I hung there, arms spread-eagled over my head, secured to a clothes bar, in the tight, dark bedroom closet.

I'd been invited to a get-together at my partner's bucolic home on this late mid-Winter afternoon. She'd acquired this rustic dwelling over a year earlier. It required much work, some significant renovation, much of which she'd done herself (resourceful woman that she is). Finally, it was largely updated. She moved in. And, with her careful touch, it was laden with charm. She referred to it affectionately as "the farmhouse." Its homey vibe and tasteful decor reflected her dedication and love of the endeavor.

She'd asked me to arrive early for a get-together with friends. Actually, after the original invitation, she texted me. "Arrive at 4:37 PM, not a minute earlier or a minute later, for the 6:00 PM soiree. Bring your overnight bag, slaveboy."

That was a clear signal. When she used the appellation "slaveboy," we left our real world roles behind and entered a fantastical femdom world. She became my Dominant Baroness. She was transformed into my owner. And I became her property, her slave.

After reading the text, it took a while to settle my heart rate down. I eyed the evening with unbridled excitement.

I arrived at 4:37 PM on the designated evening. "Right on time. Good boy," she greeted me. After closing the door behind us, she embraced me and treated me to a tender kiss. Well, it was more than a single smooch. She was an ardent kisser and she unleashed her considerable skills.

She broke off the embrace and instructed me. "Follow me. Bring your bag."

I followed her silently to the small guest bedroom, admiring her svelte figure in front of me. I shut the door behind us. She grabbed my bag and tossed it on the bed. She opened it as though it were her own and began rummaging through it. We both knew she'd find what she was looking for. She pulled out a pouch-like bag containing some domination accessories. She unhurriedly singled out a leashed collar, two wrist restraints, a blindfold and two clothespins.

She pointed to me and beckoned me to approach. She held the tag, which was attached to the collar, between her thumb and forefinger. She held it to my lips. I knew what she expected. I kissed it. She asked, "What does it say?" I knew it well.

"It says, 'Obedient slaveboy. I belong to the Dominant Baroness forever.'"

"Good boy," she complimented me.

She fastened the collar around my neck. Snugly. She grasped the attached leash and then pointed to the ground. I knew what she expected. I assumed a position on all fours. She circled me, leash in hand, like a judge's inspection at a dog show. She tugged on the leash occasionally, as if to maintain my rapt attention. And then, with a firm tug of the leash, she led me the short distance to the closet. I peeked at our image in the doors' mirrors. The leashed underling, firmly leashed in the hand of his Baroness. Erotic!

She slid aside one of the mirrored doors. They were narrow, not much more than shoulder width. She pulled on the leash to make me stand and shoved me into the closet. She turned me to face the room. "Hands against the clothes bar," she instructed. I stretched my arms over my head. She used the Velcro wrist restraints to fasten my wrists to the overhead clothes bar.

"Try to ex-tri-cate yourself," she challenged me, exaggerating the pronunciation of the command.

I pulled. I wriggled. I squirmed. It was no use. The restraints were tight. I was firmly bound. Captured. Helpless. Truly helpless.

"I can't," I admitted.

"Good," she replied. "I own you."

She blindfolded me. My world became dark. And then she told me to repeat, in a whisper, over and over...

"Obedient slaveboy.

I belong to the Dominant Baroness forever.

And then I want you to add... 'Please, I beg you. Be gentle with me.'"

She made me practice it several times. Then she slid shut the closet door. It was a snug fit. I felt entombed in my cell. I heard her close the bedroom door behind her, further sealing me in the discrete privacy of her makeshift prison. And with the closing of that door it hit me hard - I truly was her property. She really did own me. I was completely at her mercy. I twitched with some genuine fear. Enigmatically, I reveled in the sensation of helplessness.

And there I was, collared, stretched, bound and blindfolded, repeating the mantra again and again, in a soft whisper,

"Obedient slaveboy.

I belong to the Dominant Baroness forever.

Please, I beg you. Be gentle with me."

Time was hard to discern. It was perhaps ten minutes since she'd left. I'd repeated the incantation...I don't know. Forty? Fifty? Sixty times? I lost track. I heard the bedroom door open. I discerned only silence from the rest of the house. I surmised we were still alone, well before the 6:00 soiree.

The bedroom door closed quickly. Then someone slid open the door to my "holding cell." I sensed a presence standing in front of me. I assumed...I hoped...it was my Baroness. I continued the mantra as I was instructed. In a whisper.

"Obedient slaveboy."

And I knew it was my Baroness unbuttoning my shirt. When fully opened, one of my nipples was pinched. I knew it was a clothespin. I winced but continued.

"I belong to the Dominant Baroness forever."

And I felt a second clothes pin squeeze my other nipple. I couldn't help but let out a soft whimper with the twinge of discomfort. And I immediately uttered, with utter sincerity, the third line...

"Please, I beg you. Be gentle with me!"

Then I began again.

"Obedient slaveboy." And I felt fingers manipulating my belt buckle, the buttons on my trousers and my zipper. My pants fell to the tops of my shoes. My shorts were pulled down. Some moist lips touched mine, interrupting my declaration with a lovely kiss. When they pulled away I continued, panting.

"I belong to the Dominant Baroness forever." And her lips once again pressed against mine and lingered there for a several moments. The sensation was sublime. If ecstasy can be described, this was it. She added to the intensity by grabbing my balls in her hand and squeezing. She pulled her lips from mine while continuing to massage my genitals. I resumed my lines, right on cue.

"Please, I beg you. Be gentle with me!" And with that, she gave my testicles a firm squeeze. Then she released my balls and pulled gently on the two clothespins. Not enough to dislodge them, but enough to make me squeal. She pressed her lips firmly into mine. Her tongue circled my lips in an erotic dance. There was the torment of my pinched nipples; the anxiety of being incarcerated; the helplessness of my bondage; the passion of her kiss. It was overwhelming. I entered an ethereal realm. The sensuous, steamy kiss went on. I repeated the mantra over and over. "Obedient slaveboy..." And the erotic dance continued. The kissing, the pinching, the squeezing.

Then she pulled away.

She removed the clothespins. Not gently, but with a sudden and almost violent withdrawal, as though she'd squeezed them even more before releasing them. Ouch! I winced and whined spontaneously as I heard them drop to the floor. I felt her unfasten the Velcro restraints from the clothes bar, one at a time. She tossed them on the ground in front of me.

"She cupped my balls with her fingers and caressed them. "Make yourself presentable," she cooed quietly, "And then meet me in the north room, Sluggo."

"Sluggo" was what she normally called me. And, by mutual agreement, I knew we'd departed from the femdom realm. I realized the Baroness/slaveboy scene was over. And with that, she turned, walked to the bedroom door, opened it and closed it behind her.

I stood there, trying to sober up from the experience. I removed the blindfold and adjusted my eyes to the light. I stretched to get my circulation going again. Blindfold in hand, I removed my collar, picked up the restraints, and clothespins and tucked them all carefully into the discrete pouch in my overnight bag. I stashed them safely away, into the bottom of my suitcase. I made sure I was all buttoned and zipped up, took a deep breath to gather myself.

That was intense, I thought. Totally unforeseeable. Intoxicating. Provocative. I decided I'd better get to the north room as directed. I hoped to imbibe in a Manhattan cocktail, ironically, to sober up, to come back to Earth! Like indulging in a snort to calm down after an ordeal.

If past experience held up, she'd never say another word about this little escapade. She'd act as if it had never happened. That's how my Baroness was. Utterly private. Completely discrete. She'd never even let our real world selves in on the trysts of the Baroness and her slaveboy. That was strictly between us. And she knew that I would continue to be her obedient slaveboy. That I would again pledge to her, "Obedient slaveboy. I belong to the Dominant Baroness forever." And that I'd beseech her, with sincere supplication, "Please, I beg you. Be gentle with me!" And hope that she'd listen.

A Promenade

The Attic

I was sitting quietly, catching upon some reading at my Baroness's cozy "farmhouse." I enjoyed sitting near the piano, in close proximity to the lustrously bright southern sun room. It was an unencumbered, lazy day until she interrupted my preoccupation. She walked in and stood by me. She pointed her finger at me.

"Slaveboy," she addressed me. "Fetch your collar and leash, and bring three pairs of my Baroness footwear to the attic. Hop to it!" she commanded. And then disappeared into another part of the house.

We both had a full understanding of the arrangement. From the moment she addressed me as "slaveboy," we departed the world of our real selves and entered a fantasy realm. In this kinky, fetishistic domain she became my owner, my Goddess, my Dominant Baroness (which was how I was to address her - "Baroness"). I became her slave, her servant, her captive, her thrall, her servile worshiper. And we'd continue in those roles until she released us from those personas by calling me "Sluggo," a real world appellation.

Of course, I dropped everything and hopped to it. She kept some risqué / seductive "Baroness" shoes in a makeshift closet under the stairwell to the attic. I selected two pairs of shoes and some boots. Shoes were verboten in the attic. House rules. So, I removed mine and carried hers up the steep, narrow, carpeted stairwell in two trips.

The old dilapidated attic had been transformed into a spacious, single room, probably 25' X 12'. The walls were sloped inward, as many lofts are, creating a cathedral ceiling. She'd carpeted the room wall to wall, with a lush weave over a thick pad. Luxurious flooring. Great to exercise on...or to crawl on.

I deposited the footwear next to a unique little wooden chair, whose seat was only a few inches off the ground, whose back was tall. And then I hustled back downstairs to fetch my collar and leash. They were in a suitcase that housed all of the accessories that a Baroness might use on her slaveboy - restraints, floggers, paddles, ropes, gags...you get the picture. I pulled the suitcase out of storage, unzipped it and pulled out the collar and leash. I also grabbed my Baroness's riding crop, which served as a symbol of absolute authority. Though she hadn't mentioned it, I hoped she might be pleased if I included it in the escapade she was about to create.

I scurried back to the attic, set the accessories down next to the footwear, knelt beside them and waited.

Within a few minutes my Baroness appeared. She had dressed for the occasion. She donned a faux leather, black pleated skirt and a sheer, black floral mesh blouse with no bra. Some sheer black leggings rounded out the ensemble. It was super sexy. She wore no footwear.