Farmhouse Chronicles

She sat in the chair. "Clothes off," she ordered curtly. I stripped naked.

"On your knees," she commanded. I knelt before her.

"It was thoughtful of you to bring my riding crop," she complimented me. "Hand it to me," she instructed, I gave it to her. She held it to my lips. I kissed it reverently. She slapped me with it playfully, not hard at all, on my chest and thighs. "Spread your legs, slaveboy." And she used an underhand stroke of the crop to lightly slap my genitals. She seemed intuitively to know how hard to swat, just below the threshold of discomfort. We gazed in each others' eyes as she gently spanked my genitals. Her expression was half stern Mistress, half devilish grin.

"Hold out your tongue," she said. I stuck it out and she dished out several slaps there as well and the dried it off by lightly slapping my shoulders.

"Collar," she spoke. I handed her my collar. She held the tag in front of my face. "What does it say?" she inquired. I knew it well.

"It says 'Obedient slaveboy...I Belong to the Dominant Baroness Forever."

"Good boy," she congratulated me. Then she held the tag to my lips. I kissed it respectfully. She snapped the collar round my neck, as though formalizing the fact of ownership. "And the leash," she added.

I handed her the leash. She attached it to the collar. She tugged the leash taut and released it many times, firmly establishing her physical dominance. Then she explained.

"I thought we'd do a little light training today. You're going to place a pair of footwear on my feet. Then we're going to take a little stroll around the room. You'll crawl, on all fours, behind me. You'll kiss the floor I've just walked on. When I stop, you'll stick your head under the back of my skirt and kiss my butt cheeks. Then we'll walk some more and you'll keep worshiping the ground I've walked on. Got it?"

"Yes, Baroness, I understand."

And with that she pointed to a pair of shoes. Sexy, silver, pointy toes with skinny three inch heals. Between the ankle strap and the toes were seven narrow, silver straps. She crossed her legs to make one of her feet accessible. I'd long loved her feet. They were perfect. Slender. Soft. Elegant. Carefully manicured nails. Through the sheer material on her toes I could see the purple/black painting of her nails. I slid the shoe on and pulled on the zipper in the back of the shoe. That alone was an erotic experience.

"Kiss it," she instructed me. And I kissed it with sincere adoration. "Don't forget the heels," she said. I lifted her leg, supported her calf, and I sucked on the long, narrow heel, slowly and then to the hilt, stirring my libido. "Good boy," she uttered. I lived for such compliments.

She switched positions of her crossed legs. I pulled the other shoe onto her naked foot, zipped it up and kissed it devotedly, without her prompting. Then I sucked the heel lovingly. To worship her divine foot and shoe was such a privilege.

"Now let's take a walk," she announced.

She stood and began an excruciatingly slow and deliberate promenade around the room. She kept my leash fairly loose, to allow me to place my lips on the carpet behind her as she walked. Periodically she'd stop. I'd raise up a bit, place my hands on the front of her thighs for balance and stick my head under her skirt. Then I'd kiss her buttocks, each cheek with the proper deference. "That's enough," she'd say. And we'd resume the tour of the room, while I kissed the ground she walked on.

After a few trips around the room we ended back at home base, the chair with the other shoes. She sat. She pointed to another pair. Shiny, slick, black patent leather ones that just oozed the command, "Lick me!" The shoes had a huge heel, probably two inches in diameter. I removed the pointy silver ones from my Goddess's feet and snuggled the new ones on, deliberately and gently, one by one, paying tribute to each. I especially liked kissing and licking the smooth, patent leather and I was quite sure she knew it.

"Don't forget the soles," she reminded me. I supported an outstretched calf with my hands and licked the soles of her shoes. As with all her Baroness shoes, these had never set foot outdoors. They were pristine, like they were right off the shelf. She had me linger in my reverence. Then we took off on our second walk around the attic.

As before, I kissed the ground she'd just traversed. And when she stopped, I'd obediently snuggle my head under her pleated skirt and kiss her cheeks. We circled the room several times.

Again, she ended up back at her "throne" and sat down. "Now the boots," she commanded. I removed the patent leather shoes and wriggled her feet into the black leather boots, a more arduous task than were the shoes. But I succeeded in squeezing them onto her feet. Zipping them up completed the adorning. Kissing her boots before our stroll took a bit longer. The surface area was much greater. Plus, she commanded, "Don't neglect a centimeter."

Up and down and all around I went, deliberately and lovingly. After smooching with her boots, we departed for our third room tour.

It was similar to the previous two except for one alteration. When we stopped she turned toward me and guided my head under the front of her skirt. There I discovered that her body suit was crotchless. She guided my head between her legs and I sought not to disappoint. I held her butt cheeks in my hands for stability while I kissed, teased, licked and sucked on her pussy. She seemed in no hurry to end this portion of today's training. I obliged with alacrity.

Finally, after many trips around the room (I lost track of how many) and an extensive worshiping of her pussy, we ended up back by her throne. She sat once again. She pointed to the boots. I unzipped them and removed them from her feet. Then I knelt. She tugged lovingly on my leash.

"You've been a very good slaveboy." And with that she began kissing me. Affectionate, heartfelt, moist kisses. Eventually she pulled away.

"You'll saddle soap and clean the shoes. Later. Now, put everything away, Sluggo, and you can resume your reading," she announced.

"Sluggo," again, was our code word for "this Baroness/slaveboy session is over." We were back in our real world roles. And with that, she stood, headed for the stairs and departed the attic.

I thought to myself, you are one lucky fella, to have a Baroness who knows you so well, who controls you so expertly, who teases you so provocatively. I let out a few deep breaths and set about returning all the accessories to their proper storage and planning when I'd sit and clean the shoes diligently.

I made my way back to my reading chair by the piano. The brightness of the south sun room bellowed in. I heard her in the kitchen. She called to me.

"You getting hungry? I'm making a big salad."

"You bet," I answered honestly.

How funny. I knew she'd never mention the little tryst she'd just treated me to. And, once again, I counted my blessings.

Kitchen Duties and Shower Rewards

It was a cozy, extremely enjoyable get-together. Dinner for five at the farmhouse. She had orchestrated a fine event. Libations to begin. Some appetizers. Lasagna, sumptuous salad and delicious bread. Everyone was fully satiated and had a fine time. I did my best to be a charming co-host and I think I rose to the occasion.

When the final guests left and we shut the door behind them, she put her arms around me and give me an affectionate kiss.

"You were great tonight. Handsome, conversant, a solicitous host. I couldn't have asked for more. But..." and she gave me a devilish look, "you need to go get the long length of nylon rope and meet me in the kitchen. Now, slaveboy. And don't forget your collar."

Of course, I recognized immediately that our relationship had changed. By calling me "slaveboy" she suspended the personas of our real selves and created two new individuals. She became my Dominant Baroness - my captress, my owner. And I morphed into her property, her servant, captive, slave and worshiper. A fetish world. I was devoid of free will. A world of female domination - femdom.

Without another word, I dispatched to our stash of domination / slave accessories, found the long length of rope she referred to. About a quarter inch thick, it was soft nylon, quite supple. And it was long. About twelve feet. I grabbed my collar as well, the one whose tag read, "Obedient slaveboy; I belong to the Dominant Baroness Forever." I took the liberty of snapping it around my neck. (I knew she wouldn't mind. She might have even expected it.) And I returned to meet her in the kitchen, rope in hand.

The kitchen looked like the repository of an evening's entertainment. Not crazy but quite a few dirty dishes, glasses and silverware. Miscellaneous party odds and ends everywhere. Quite the clutter. Quite the mess.

I handed her the rope. She responded,

"Good boy. Strip. Now. Remove all your clothes. There's slave work to do."

I stripped down to nothing (except for my slave collar) and stood there. She circled and eyed me, up and down with careful scrutiny.

Then she tied one end of the rope to the handle of the dishwasher, just to the right of the sink. She pulled on it to check its security. Her dexterity revealed that she'd tied a rope before.

The other end? She wrapped it around my genitals, my cock and my balls, and made a snug knot underneath. She tugged on it to make sure it would hold. It was not painfully tight but it seemed plenty firm. She exuded an aura of confidence in her handiwork.

"You are now properly tethered, slaveboy, under my control. You should have enough slack to reach any place in the kitchen. Clean up, like a proper slaveboy."

She circled again, stopping behind me. She reached her hand in between my legs and began fondling my testicles, then my cock, and back to my testicles. "Does that feel good, slaveboy?" she asked. I moaned in appreciation, uncontrollably betraying my enjoyment of her manipulation.

"I know you'll do a good job," she said as she continued the manual teasing. Eventually she broke off contact and departed, heading for her bedroom.

She was right. Tethered to the dishwasher as I was, the rope was still long enough that I could reach the entire kitchen. But the tautness of the knots, both on the dishwasher and around my cock and balls, gave me a constant reminder of my captivity and the obedience my Baroness expected.

I put food away first, placing each dish in a smaller plate if appropriate, covering all the dishes with plastic wrap and stashing in the fridge. Then I organized plates, saucers and bowls to the side of the sink. I gave each a quick rinse before organizing them carefully in the dishwasher. Some people put them in as they are, food-crusted as can be. I'd rather make sure that they'd come out of the dishwasher sparking clean, especially since my work was a tribute to my Goddess, my Baroness and her discerning eye.

I began transferring the dishes to the washer. There is a method to loading these machines. I know. My Baroness had taught me. I got the placeware loaded and was working on the silverware when she returned. Apparently to check up on me.

She approached me from behind again. She lightly caressed my butt.

"How's my little slaveboy doing?"

As before, she slid a hand between my legs to fondle my genitals. She squeezed my balls gently. Traced the length of my cock and gave it a few pulls. Back to my balls, she tickled them lightly, softly with dexterous fingers. Then squeezed them just short of making me wince. Expertly.

"Do you like it when I do this, slaveboy?" she asked.

"Oh, very much, Baroness. I love it," I confessed.

"I know," she said, while continuing the treatment. Then she moved to face me.

"I just know you'll make this place look spic and span, right?" And with that she took hold of the rope tied to my balls and pulled it snug. She gave it a half dozen jerks and definitely got my attention.

"I'll do the very best job I can, Baroness," I answered.

She held the tether tightly for some time before dropping it and walking away, returning to her bedroom.

"I know," she added matter-of-factly, over her shoulder.

I kept working, diligently. Silverware. Then pots and pans. The dishwasher almost full, I planned how I'd scrub each pot and each pan, rinse them and then hand dry them. I was about half way through with those when she returned again. Once again, she positioned herself behind me and reached between my legs for some teasing.

"Good boy," she complimented me. Then she walked around and faced me. Once again, she took hold of the rope and pulled, until my cock and balls were pulled forward, just short of uncomfortably.

"Do you know what this rope means?"

"I'm not sure," I responded. "I suppose it means that I'm under your control."

"That and more," she added. "It means that I own you. You're mine. You have no free will. You're my property and I'll do with you whatever I want. It's like your tag says. Tell me, again."

"It says, 'Obedient slaveboy - I belong to the Dominant Mistress Forever.'"

"Good boy, that's right." She pulled on the rope, tightening its squeeze on my balls. While she pulled on it she kissed me. With great affection. Confirming that I was her captive but that I was in loving hands.

She departed again and I finished the pots and pans, dried and put them away, then proceeded to clean all the countertops. I put the detergent tab into the washer and started it up. I surveyed the room. It looked great. She appeared again, probably cued by the revving up of the dishwasher.

"Super job, slaveboy. Your work passes inspection." She untied the rope from my genitals and the dishwasher. She tossed the rope onto the counter top.

"Now, I want you to go to the laundry room bathroom. Bring a kneeling pad with you. Remove your collar. Kneel in the shower stall, facing the shower head. Make sure the showerhead is pointed directly at your face and chest. Turn on the water. It's going to take a while to warm up. It'll be very cold. I want you to thank me while you endure the shock. A simple, repetitive 'Thank you Baroness' will suffice."

"Once the water is warmed up, get it nice and hot. Get a handful of hair conditioner - it's slippery and a perfect lube. Start masturbating for me. And recite what's engraved on your tag. Then thank me once again. Keep it up until you have an orgasm. And while you cum, thank me profusely, over and over."

"When you're done with your orgasm, you can leave the shower and dry off. Come join me in bed. Do you understand my instructions, slaveboy?"

"Yes, Baroness. I understand."

And with that, she left me again.

I scurried to get the knee pad, a waterproof, foam rubber rig designed for gardening but which we used often when I knelt before my Baroness. I set it on the shower floor. The stall was a tight fit for me, a meager 32" X 32" base, so I quite filled it up when I knelt on the pad. I almost felt cocooned.

I knew what was about to happen. That is, I knew I was about to experience a fairly severe shock from the cold water. And I knew it would take a good 30 - 45 seconds for it to warm up. I braced myself and turned it on.

The icy explosion hit me right in the face and chest, as instructed. And it cascaded from there over my entire body. I gasped for air, I breathed in spasmodic inhalations. I uttered, haltingly, "Thank you, Baroness. Thank you for making me your obedient slaveboy. Thank you, Baroness."

I could barely speak, so shocked was I from the cold water. But I kept it up. I continued until, finally, mercifully, the water began to warm up.

I brought the temperature up to a comfortably hot level. I grabbed the bottle of hair conditioner from a shower shelf and squirted a healthy dose in my hand. I rubbed my cock and balls with it and then began to masturbate, with purpose.

"Obedient slaveboy - I belong to the Dominant Baroness Forever. Thank you, Baroness, for allowing me to masturbate for you. It's an honor and a privilege."

She was right. The hair conditioner was a great lube. And I continued the tribute, over and over. And I continued my jerking, over and over. A fresh handful of lubrication. Another verbal tribute. "Obedient slaveboy - I belong to the Dominant Baroness Forever. Thank you, Baroness, for allowing me to masturbate for you. It's an honor and a privilege."

On and on I went. In crept an overwhelming feeling of devotion, affection, gratitude. I sincerely meant every word I uttered, as I'm sure my Baroness expected.

Little by little, my excitement built up. I worked both hands on my genitals with increasing rigor as I exclaimed, "Thank you, Baroness, for allowing me to masturbate for you. It's an honor and a privilege... Thank you, Baroness, for allowing me to masturbate for you. It's an honor and a privilege... Thank you, Baroness, for allowing me to masturbate for you. It's an honor and a privilege..."

And I came forcefully, from way deep inside, in a shuddering, convulsive orgasm. I loved my Baroness so much. This orgasm was for her.

After winding down, slumping under the hot cascade of water - I did lose track of time - I shut down the water, stepped out of the shower and dried off. I put on some shorts and headed for the bedroom.

I slid under the covers, next to her. She said in a half whisper, "Oh, Sluggo, you feel so good. Snuggle with me."

And with that designation, "Sluggo," I knew she'd reverted us to our real world selves, a respectful, affectionate, considerate couple. One would never guess the femdom kink that she had orchestrated, all with the utterance of a single word - slaveboy.

What It's Like to be a Bird

The North Room

One of the great things about my Baroness is that even when she's in full domination mode, her love of knowledge transcends all.

We were sitting in the north room of her farmhouse on a lazy winter afternoon. She luxuriated on the pig skin couch. I sat in the couch opposite, facing the TV. She was absorbed in a book. As usual, she was smartly dressed in slacks and a blouse. She was always tasteful in her appearance. I was watching a sporting event, sans audio, in tee shirt and jeans. In her hands was a hard-covered book, one she'd given me for my birthday - What It's Like to be a Bird: From Flying to Nesting, Eating to Singing, What Birds are Doing and Why.

While still reading and not moving her gaze from the book's pages, she broke the silence between us and said, "Slaveboy, start a fire."

That was an unmistakable signal between us. When she used the appellation "slaveboy," we set our real world selves aside, by mutual agreement, and entered a fantastical femdom world. She morphed into my Dominant Baroness. Simply the proclamation of that one word, "slaveboy," and she was transformed into my owner, my superior, my Domme...my Baroness. And I became her property, her slave, her servant, her submissive and obedient boy toy, devoid of free will.

Of course, I hopped to it. I immediately tracked down some kindling and small logs. I loaded up the wood fireplace (as she'd taught me) and got a fire going. As soon as it seemed to be on its way and stable she spoke again.

"Slaveboy, fetch a pair of my shoes - the sandals with the heavy chains."

I knew exactly the shoes she meant. She'd made me buy them for her a while back, in a brief shopping spree into sexy footwear. They were black velveteen sandals with a broad/stout heel about two-and-a-half inches long. The ankle strap and the toe strap were each adorned with hefty chains that hung just a bit loosely. Perhaps it was just me, but the chains seemed to possess a vibe of domination. On second thought...nah...I'm pretty sure it's what the designers had in mind.