Farmhouse Chronicles

She refined her instructions.

"On all fours, both going and coming back. You may bring a kneeling pad. Now!" she added emphatically.

Her shoe closet was at the far side of the house, clear on the south end. It was quite a trek to crawl the entire way on all fours. So I knew she wasn't messing around. But I was thrilled to carry out her command. I also knew that I'd be kneeling, in a pose of worship, since she was allowing me to bring along a kneeling pad.

I shuffled on all fours, through a hallway, through the kitchen, through two more living areas and into her office/plant room, on the sunny south side of the house. At the far end was a closet where she kept her shoes.

I shuffled to the closet. There they were, those sexy, black, large-heeled, chained sandals. And there was the kneeling pad which she kept in the closet as well.

It was not easy but I gathered them into my fingers in such a way that I could still crawl. It was a long, challenging return trip and my knees began to feel the wear. But I loved every moment of it. After all, it was designed to please my Baroness.

When I reached the north room I felt a rise in temperature. The fireplace was doing its job, creating a warm and cozy cocoon for us. I presented my Baroness with the shoes and the kneeling pad. I immediately noticed that she had changed outfits. She had donned one of my dress shirts, a light blue one. It hung loosely on her svelte frame. She left the top two buttons undone. She seemed to be wearing nothing else. Terrifically sexy.

"Strip, then stand at attention," she ordered, in a no-nonsense delivery.

I pulled off my clothes, not hurriedly but no dallying. Then I stood at attention in front of her, stark naked, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back, hands clasped behind me, as she'd taught me.

"Turn around," she ordered.

I slowly turned and faced away from her.

"Hands in front," she ordered again.

I folded my hands in front of me. She slapped my buttocks with the palm of her hand. Fairly sharply. She gave me a good ten swats on each cheek, enough to get my attention. Then she spoke.

"On all fours, slaveboy. Worship the sandals you brought me. I want to watch."

I faced her again and crouched down to all fours. The sandals lay on the floor.

"May I kneel on the pad?" I asked.

"You may," she answered kindly.

I positioned my knees on the pad, bent down and began placing the gentlest of kisses on the sandals. Up, down and all around. She directed me to lick the chains gently and then grasp them between my lips, to tug them, then let them go. Over and over. She watched and issued occasional directions before I heard her next command.

"That's enough of that. Come sit in front of me. This book is fascinating. I want you to rub my feet while I read it out loud."

Clear enough. I sat on the floor in front of her, facing away from her, my back against the couch. She draped her legs over my shoulders, my head between her thighs. I marveled at these beautiful appendages before I began massaging one of her feet. They were perfect. Soft. Smooth. Meticulously manicured. She wore a dark nail polish, somewhere between purple and black. A color that inspired Goth-like images of kink and domination. Her feet almost spoke to me, demanding that I worship them. Of course, it was a privilege. I admired. I began a careful, sensual massage. She began reading.

"The bird respiratory system is fundamentally different from ours, and much more efficient. Instead of flexible lungs that expand and contract with each breath, birds have rigid lungs and air flows through continuously in one direction, back to front. Air flow and storage is managed by a system of air sacs, and breathing is controlled by the muscles of the rib cage. Because the lungs don't move, the membranes for gas exchange can be thinner than in our lungs this also allows intertwined tiny air passages and blood vessels to be arranged with a countercurrent flow, which transfers a lot more oxygen to the blood than in human lungs. It is thought that this breathing system evolved in dinosaurs more than 200 million years ago, at a time when the earth had only half as much oxygen as today, and birds now reap the benefit. Birds are essentially never out of breath, and if you see a bird panting after exertion it is because of overheating. In experiments, hummingbirds can still fly at an oxygen level equivalent to 43,000 feet elevation! That's 50% higher than Mount Everest."

All the while, as she read, I rubbed her feet lovingly and interspersed the massage with tender kisses of tribute. She didn't seem to mind. On we went, she reading to us, enlightening us, I delivering the pleasure of a foot rub.

"...a coyote is much faster than a roadrunner, but a roadrunner is faster than most humans. If competitors ran a 100-meter sprint, an ostrich would easily take first place with a top speed of about 60 miles per hour. The coyote would be close behind, over 40 miles per hour. A roadrunner's top speed is said to be about 20 miles per hour. Olympian Usain Bolt has run at 23 miles per hour. An average human rarely tops 15 miles per hour. So an elite human sprinter would beat the roadrunner but most of us would not."

After some time and much attention to those beautiful tootsies and the cadence of her reading voice, she broke off the book narration. She set the book aside.

"Face me, slaveboy, on your knees."

I immediately repositioned myself.

"I want to see what the sandals look like on me. Place them on my feet."

I delicately and deliberately adorned each foot with a sandal.

"Now worship my feet and the sandals, slaveboy."

I followed her instructions, using my lips and my tongue to pay tribute to her glory, to her superiority, to her authority, to her erotic elegance.

"Don't forget the soles, slaveboy," she reminded me.

And I lifted one foot after the other, to kiss and lick the soles.

"And the heels. Suck on the heels, slaveboy."

No small task, as these heels were large - about two inches in diameter. I did the best I could. As I wrapped my lips around a heel and she pushed it even a little deeper into my mouth, with just a smidgen of degradation, asserting herself. Then she switched gears.

"My calves, slaveboy. Worship my calves."

I set her foot down on the floor and began attending to her gorgeous calves. I rubbed them admiringly before running my lips and then my tongue up and down. She seemed to like it.

"Good boy. Now my thighs - my inner thighs, slaveboy. Worship them."

I placed my face between her thighs and alternated between them, kissing, licking and sucking them, with all the ardor I could muster. Then she changed gears again. She opened her legs wide, exposing her pussy.

"Worship me, slaveboy," she cooed. And I buried my face in between her legs and began kissing her pussy delicately. She issued instructions, telling me how and where to use my lips, my tongue and how to suck. How wet, how fast, how deep, how sloppy. I was fastidiously obedient. From her intermittent moans, I surmised that I was doing a decent job and that she was enjoying it.

Finally, she spoke.

"That's all for now, slaveboy. You served me well. I've taken note. Take the sandals and your kneeling pad back. You may walk. Make sure you clean the shoes later. We're done here, Sluggo."

"Sluggo" was what she normally called me. And, by mutual agreement, I knew we'd departed from the femdom realm with that address. I realized the Baroness/slaveboy scene was over. I picked up the sandals and the kneeling pad, stood and walked (thankfully!) back to the other side of the house.

I knew that when I returned she'd act as if nothing ever happened. That's how she was. She'd never share these episodes with our real world selves. If she wanted to talk about it, she'd return us to Baroness/slaveboy mode. And that was fine with me. It made it feel like a clandestine tryst - a very naughty affair. Erotic. Forbidden. It stoked my libido well. And she knew it.

"Come sit with me, sweetie," she cooed. And I snuggled in beside her on the inviting couch. We kissed.

"Have you ever read any of this book on birds?" she asked. "It's really interesting. We should read to each other some time."

Comeuppance

The Dungeon

That old Mose Allison lyric comes to mind. "Your mind is on vacation but your mouth is working overtime." I knew I should never have said what I did immediately after it all sloshed out of my mouth.

My Baroness and I were having a wonderful, playful session of corporal punishment. She had addressed me by the appellation "slaveboy," which meant that we were immediately to leave our real world selves and assume the roles of Dominant Baroness and slaveboy and all the possibilities that entails.

In this particular scene she decided that I should be lying nude, on my back, on the bed, with my wrists restrained to the frame, over my head. She was hovering over me, wielding various paddles, whips and floggers. I sensed that she was self-conscious about how aggressive to be. I could tell by the half-hearted lashes that almost tickled more than stung. That's when I blurted it out.

"You know, you'll never intimidate me. You swing like a girl." And that was it. I'd said it. So inappropriate. So snarky. So insulting. To my Baroness! What the fuck was I thinking?

Everything froze. No motion. No sound. I waited, reprimanding myself for the snide remark. Cursing myself.

Finally, she broke the silence. "Clean all this stuff up, Sluggo. There's a show I want to catch on TV." She released one of my wrist restraints and off she went.

With my free hand I released my other wrist. I gathered all the flogging tools and put them safely away in our Baroness/slaveboy suitcase.

Several weeks went by...there was no mention of "slaveboy." Not a hint. And, as I'd expected, her real world self never gave a hint of displeasure, disappointment or even acknowledgement of the Baroness/slaveboy realm. That's how she was. Whatever occurred between Baroness and slaveboy never spilled over into our real world. But seldom had her neglect of our alternative kinky world lasted so long.

Then, one day, I received a letter in the mail. I opened it. I found a small piece of stationery, devoid of any picture or design. But there was a hand-written message. It read...

"Slaveboy, report to the dungeon at 7:37 PM, Tuesday the 12^th. Bring the entire suitcase of accessories. Once inside, shut the door. Remove all your clothes. Lie down on the floor, face down. Your Baroness."

And that was it. Nothing else.

The dungeon was a location in the farmhouse we rarely visited for any reason. It was in an unfinished basement. The basement itself was dilapidated, full of exposed pipes and ducts, even an area full of exposed dirt and stones. The room she referred to as the dungeon...well...we'd never used it for anything. It was completely empty. We'd certainly never used it as a dungeon. I think we'd joked about it somewhere along the line as a sex dungeon. But it remained a neglected, remote room. And we'd never "played" there.

It was small, maybe 10' X 10'. Its perimeter consisted of decaying plaster walls, thirty years past a light paint job of bright yellow. The floor consisted of old worn down linoleum squares with several missing. It was dingy and dank. Humidity permeated the stagnant the air. It was not an inviting ambience. Far from it. It was stark and even a little creepy, with pill bugs, spiders and other various arthropods making occasional homes where floor met walls and in the single window that had been shut off with old boards. That was my destination.

The reporting day was nearly a week away, so I had lots of time to mull over my fate. I recalled my fateful utterance, telling my Baroness that she'd never intimidate me. Boy, was she proving me wrong. I was as self conscious and nervous as a whore in church whose minister was calling for public confessions.

On Tuesday the 12^th I watched the minutes creep by - all day long. I actually started sweating around 6:00 PM. By 6:30 I could not control shaking with anticipation. Literally. She was in the attic, doing I know not what, when 6:37 PM arrived. I was downstairs. I made my way, suitcase in hand, to the creaky, precarious stairs to the basement, to my date in the "dungeon."

I entered my cell and confirmed that it was as creepy as I'd remembered. I shut the door behind me. There was no furniture, not a single chair, table or appliance. Just a single overhead light and emptiness. Like an interrogation room in the movies. I set the suitcase down.

I recalled her instructions. I stripped naked and piled all my clothes in a small bundle, against a section of wall with no critters. I felt disturbingly vulnerable. But I did as I was told. I lay on the floor, on my stomach. I balled my hands under my forehead.

I hadn't been there more that a minute when the door opened. I was quite sure it was my Baroness. She took a few steps and settled the suitcase onto its side, then unzipped it. There she rummaged for what seemed like a minute at most. Then, suddenly, WHACK!

It was a ping pong paddle. It had landed on my butt cheek. I heard its distinct sound and felt its unmistakable sting.

"Count out loud," I heard my Baroness command.

"One!" I exclaimed. Then "Two!" I grunted as she alternated sides. "Three!" And on we went until we reached twenty. She paused. I was grateful. My cheeks were tingling. I yearned for no more. And I was grateful that I'd completed my penance, that the retribution was over. But then, WHACK!

I knew immediately that it was a leather flogger, about a foot long, with a flat, supple end about 1.5" wide. "Count out loud," she reiterated. And off she went again, this time on the backs of my upper thighs. She wielded some real heft in those slaps and I recalled my snide remark about swinging like a girl that inspired this treatment. If this was like a girl it was like Serena Williams returning a lazy tennis serve. Ouch!

We reached the count of twenty again and she rested, mercifully. But within moments I felt another assault. I knew what this one was too. It was a whip/flogger with probably a hundred thin rubber tendrils. Ordinarily its bite wasn't as bad as its bark but she was swinging from the shoulders, strafing my back with lashes. Again, we reached twenty before she paused again. My back, my butt cheeks and thighs were all tingling.

And then, SNAP! I knew this implement. It was her riding crop, the leather head of which was no more than 2" X 2". But its ferocity was concentrated in that small area. She began working my entire back side, thighs, buttocks, back, with firm, carefully aimed smacks, in places she'd already worked over. I was most grateful when we reached twenty. Then she said something different.

"Stand at attention, slaveboy, clasp your hands behind your head." I stood up and assumed the position, which she'd taught me early in our relationship. I was immediately flogged with a contraption that had several dozen, flat, leather tendrils, each about a quarter inch wide. She slapped it against my chest, harder than she'd ever mustered before with this punitive accessory. At twenty she said, "Spread your legs." Then she began twirling the flogger so the tendrils were like vertical helicopter blades, making them graze my genitals, especially my balls. I so wanted to implore her, "Please, Baroness. I'm begging you. Be gentle with me." But I figured I'd better not press my luck.

Fortunately, she seemed to intuit just how forcefully she could swat my testicles just short of that serious pain threshold. But she had my nervousness percolating.

Following the ball slapping she proceeded to use several of the remaining paddles and floggers, on the front of my thighs and on my chest. Finally, she threw down the hair brush she had in her hand. It rattled on the barren tile floor.

"Don't ever insult me again. Don't ever underestimate me. Do you understand, slaveboy?"

I replied with the utmost sincerity. "I understand Baroness."

"Good. Then put all this shit away, Sluggo, we're done."

And with that, she walked out, closing the door behind her.

I did a quick eye exam of the damage. A little rosy, but no marks or welts. No enduring pain, just a light stinging. She was true to the pledge she'd once made, that she'd never injure me. That corporal punishment might be prickling but never lasting. These dungeon ministrations were certainly that. She definitely got my attention. She'd orchestrated a real learning experience. She showed me that she flogged like a real pro, not like a girl.

I gathered all the accessories, buried them in the suitcase, dressed and navigated my way upstairs to stash in a remote closet. I made a little racket when I reached the top of the stairs to merge onto the main floor.

"That you, Sluggo?" she called out from the north room.

"Yeah. Just me."

"Hey, when you're done doing whatever it is you're doing, come join me in here for some snuggling. It's been too long since we enjoyed some canoodling."

And I realized that nothing would be said about the punitive session in the dungeon. Nothing needed to be said. I'd learned my lesson. We both knew it.

Epilogue

These are a few of the journeys of the Baroness and her slaveboy. I must bow and tip my hat to her. For while I am by nature a submissive, it was a foreign realm to her when we first met. She listened out of curiosity, learned about it with open mind and then embraced it in the spirit of adventure. And oh, what a fine Domme she has become. She assumes the role with panache. She executes it with skill. She imbues it with love. What a fortunate slaveboy I am. Thank you, Baroness!

Your slaveboy