Dangerousangleofadream - Femdom

Aww, you're so sweet, saying you love me. But I'm a lesbian. I feel bad now, though. You are so nice, & such a dear friend... You know what? Maybe we could work something out. I do like having you around. And your whole "I'll do anything for you" has appeal. If you'd be willing to wear a chastity cage, I'll bet I can find a use for you.

The dedication and determination is hot.

What would your perfect boi look/act like if you got him home?

Hmmmmm… He’d be sweet and nervous but eager and obedient and devoted and desperate to please. He’d be funny and good with banter but easy to fluster and affect. He’d have a pretty mouth and soft, grabbable hair and a responsive body that he’d turn over to me completely. He’d be communicative and engaged and able to have/hold his own boundaries. My perfect boy would be imperfect (as am I!), but he’d work to be good and he’d want to be mine.

Lederlady ❤

Corporal Punishment

When I reformed our relationship into a wife-led marriage, my husband surrendered his power to me and accepted that corporal punishment would be a part of his future. To make our new dynamic as realistic as possible, true inequality had to be created and maintained, so I instituted domestic discipline into our marriage.

In the past, whenever he did something to anger me, our relationship would suffer and neither of us would be happy. Instead of dealing with the issue in a timely manner, hard feelings would fester and my resentment toward him would build. Instead of communicating my displeasure and disappointment in him, I would give him the silent treatment so he wouldn't even know why I was mad at him. I somehow expected him to read my mind or figure it out on his own.

When I took charge of the marriage, I decided to find a better way. With due consideration to his ideas and input, I designed a corporal punishment plan which I feel suits our new relationship dynamic the best. I created rules for us to live by, guiding him towards the behavior I expect from him. Some rules are minor, and some of them are zero tolerance, with serious consequences if broken.

The new way is so much better for both of us as problems are dealt with promptly ensuring no resentment builds. Before I punish him, I scold him, so he always knows exactly what he is being punished for eliminating any need for the silent treatment.

The minor day to day transgressions are taken care of during his weekly maintenance spankings which are done over my knee. However, broken zero tolerance rules must be dealt with in a stern manner.

These harsher punishments are rare and dealt with differently than scheduled maintenance spankings. For one thing, he doesn't lay himself across my lap. He has created, with his own hands, a purpose built spanking bench custom fit to hold his body at the correct height and angle for me to swing the cane or the strap comfortably while administering discipline. I love that he built it himself with such high quality as it shows he is committed to our new lifestyle and is fully invested in proper corporal punishment.

After fetching the implement bag, he puts leather cuffs on both his wrists and ankles. He walks up to the front of the bench and loosely clips his ankles in place to ensure he won't accidentally kick me when the pain gets intense.

He then puts on his leather deprivation hood and laces it tight followed by the ballgag. When this is done, he bends himself over the spanking bench. His hips are hugged on both sides by padded risers that prevent his torso from rocking off of the bench sideways keeping his bottom always lined up in the correct position to perfectly receive the next stroke, even if he is thrashing around. A hole is cut out where his genitals are, letting them dangle freely underneath, so that he can't hump against the bench and distract himself from the pain.

Once in place, he stretches forward to the extent of his reach and clips his wrist cuffs to the anchor ring in front of him. With his body stretched out taut, the muscles in his buttocks are tightened which adds to the effectiveness of the strokes. Although he is restrained hand and foot to the bench, he is still allowed a little wiggle room because I thoroughly enjoy watching him struggle and fight the restraints when I punish him. I've seen plenty of videos of dominant women caning or strapping their submissive and have trained him not to flinch or make a sound. How utterly boring.

My husband knows it's in his best interest to struggle against his restraints and scream, moan and grunt into his ballgag through the pain allowing me to fully experience his suffering. If he doesn't, I assume that I'm not swinging hard enough and put a little more effort into the next stroke.

With his ballgag strapped firmly into his mouth, no safeword can be spoken. With his wrists only clipped, not locked in place, he can free himself from the spanking bench in lieu of using a safeword. I will not swing an implement unless both wrists are properly clipped in place. The fact that he can free himself also keeps his punishment ultimately consensual as he can stop it anytime.

He doesn't know which implement I will employ until the white hot pain of the first stroke impacts his ass. Never in a hurry, I allow plenty of time for him to fully experience and appreciate the distinct pain of each stroke separately, giving him time to react, and for me to savor his reaction. I wait until the intense sting fades and he settles down, deciding he isn't going to free himself from the spanking bench (signalling his consent to continue) and has had sufficient time to feel dread for the next stroke he knows is coming. With random lengths of time between each stroke, he can't anticipate when the next one will land. When lining up for the stroke, I never let it touch his skin.

There are various reasons why his deprivation hood is used during punishment. When his sight is cut off and his hearing is diminished, it enhances his sense of touch and prevents any distractions, allowing him to concentrate his attention on the pain. This allows me to apply lighter strokes while still getting the desired outcome, resulting in less marking and irritation afterwards, as he has to be able to sit at work on Monday.

If he can't hear the implement cutting through the air, he can't anticipate the next stroke. I want to catch him off guard every time.

Another reason I hood him first, is because if I see his face, I will go easy on him and not deliver what I promised in disciplining him. The hood helps me to temporarily objectify and disassociate from him.

There is one more important reason I hood him.

It is to hide what I have come to accept about myself but don't want him to see. I have learned that I have a definite sadistic streak and administering corporal punishment has become a very raw sexual experience for me.

Nothing gets me hotter, faster, than swinging the cane or punishment strap and witnessing the reaction it causes. The struggling against the restraints, the screams, the whimpers, the moans, OH GOD, the moans. I feel so POWERFUL. It feels amazingly primal for me.

My husband knows that I get turned on from this, but has no idea how much it affects me. With him blindfolded, he can't see how excited I get. With his reduced hearing, he can't hear my soft moans as I play with myself while watching him struggle with the pain after each stroke.

He doesn't know that I strip naked when I cane or strap him. The effort of swinging the implement combined with the excitement his reaction stirs in me (my heart pounding in my chest the whole time), causes perspiration and my vagina to lubricate profusely, so it's best to be undressed.

Being naked also adds to the raw sexuality of the situation and allows me to apply nipple clamps to my breasts. The chain sways back and forth with the motion of my arm swinging the cane, creating intense stimulation as the clamps bite painfully into my nipples, helping me to share the experience of his suffering. Meanwhile, my fingers have complete access to roam my other erogenous zones. Isn't it ironic that I have become a partial painslut during HIS beatings?

It will always remain my little secret that some of the best orgasms I have ever had were from playing with myself while thrashing him. He will never know that my hottest fantasies often revolve around caning him into complete submission.

Those are just fantasies though. The reality is that I will only administer harsh punishment when he has broken our agreed upon rules and has earned it. But when he deserves it, why shouldn't I take as much pleasure from the experience as I can?

I simultaneously love and hate how obedient he is, as I love how he complies to my every want and need, but my sadistic side often wishes I could experience administering hard corporal punishment more often.

After he has received his final stroke, I let him lay there for a few minutes to compose himself. I remove my nipple clamps and massage my tortured nipples with one hand and touch myself elsewhere with the other, savoring the intense sensations, with explosive results.

When I've recovered myself, I take his hood off, and I immediately go into mommy-domme mode. After all, now that he has been fully corrected, he is my good boy again, but is still suffering the after effects. I suddenly feel an intense need to nurture him.

We both need aftercare, and what seems to work best for us is adult nursing. I feed him some water from a baby bottle and put him to my breasts to suckle for a while. I don't produce any milk, but dry suckling has a very calming effect for us both and we feel so close and intimate with each other. While on my breast, he will stare up at me with a look of total love and devotion, and I will kiss his forehead, pet him, and tell him what a good boy he is. I want to make it all better. After enduring the clamps, my nipples are quite sensitive, so his gentle suckling feels amazing.

The emotional roller coaster I experience through this whole process is so intense, but ultimately very satisfying for me. It can also be quite exhausting, and we will fall asleep as we lay there.

Whenever we go shopping together, she requires me to stay 2 steps directly behind her, unless there is a door for me to hold open for her. I follow her around everywhere, carrying her purchases in my arms. I am to keep my eyes fixated on her only, which makes for a very tight cage as she casually strolls right in front of me. Occasionally I can’t help but moan at the discomfort. Her response to the sound is a soft, smug laugh and perhaps a one-handed smack on her own backside.

All Part of the Plan, Ch. 3

This caption is the third of a four-part series I'm writing with @boysrbabies! Catch up on Part One and Part Two first!

“Where do you think you’re waddling off to, mister?”

She caught me red-handed and she knew it.

“I….I…I…”

Why do I feel like some misbehaving toddler?

“You…what, baby?”

I race to think of an excuse. Any excuse. Anything but the truth.

My shorts are at my ankles before I utter a single syllable. Her hand grabs at my soggy diaper, squeezing it inquisitorially. She turns me around, peeking into the seat of my diaper.

This diaper check is no different than any other the last few weeks. She doesn’t ask to check my diaper—not since my first messy accident three weeks ago—she just does it, no matter what I’m doing. I doubt it’ll ever get any less humiliating.

What is different is the look in her eyes. Her sweet smile replaced by anger and accusation. She knows I tried to sneak off to change my diaper.

“Honey, what did I tell you about changing your own diapers? That’s my job. If I ever catch you sneaking off like this again, you’ll be very, very sorry. Do you understand me, sweetie?”

“I…yes…I’m sorry,” I mumble. It’s easier not to dwell on the endless baby names coming my way.

“Good boy,” she says before spanking my soggy diaper, firm enough to feel through my padding.

She wouldn’t actually spank me, would she?

As I waddle behind her to the changing table, silence only interrupted by the crinkling of my diaper, I can’t help but wonder how it ever got this far.

I used to be her boyfriend. Now? I hardly feel like an adult. She did just catch me trying to hide my dirty diaper like a toddler after all…

We haven’t had sex since she taped me in that first diaper. Sure, there used to be the soul-crushing handjobs on the changing table, but even those have become nonexistent.

“Baby, we need to talk. I’ve been thinking and, well, I don’t think it’s right for a diaper-dependent like you to have sex. My body is off limits to diaper boys, sweetie.”

“And it goes without saying you won’t be receiving any blowjobs, that would be…gross. Or handjobs. So from now on, your widdle guy will stay in safely wrapped in your diapee as long as I’m changing your diapers.”

Now all I can hope for is one-minute (if I’m lucky) “diapee rubbies,” the horribly condescending name she gave them. And only when I’ve been a “good boy” for a few days.

The longer I go without sex, or really intimacy of any kind—and despite what she says, diaper changes are not “intimate moments”—the more I slip into docile obedience. I feel fuzzy, lost, desperate to make her smile. I can’t explain it.

But…it’s more than that. The more control over my body I lose, the more control she gains over my life. The further I slip into diaper dependency, the more dependent I become on her—and she knows it.

It’s not like I could ever leave her. The cold, brutal truth is no woman would want to be with me. Not anymore. I’m not foolish enough to believe there’d be a second date after I load my diaper in the middle of a crowded wine bar.

I’ll do anything to keep her happy. Anything. Whatever it takes to keep her from leaving me.

Even if it means letting her treat me like a toddler to keep her happy. She won’t admit it, but she’s definitely encouraging and rewarding infantile behavior. I can tell she’s enjoying this.

Even it means surrendering my dignity, privacy, and independence. And enduring the never-ending, relentless humiliation that defines my new life.

I’m trapped. I know it. She knows it. I’ll eventually have to put my foot down and fight for my adulthood that’s slipping away piece by piece, diaper by diaper.

I’m a grown man, I don’t need my girlfriend to make sure my diaper isn’t leaking. I am perfectly capable of changing my own diapers.

“Hop up on the changing table, sweetums! Such a great job!”

But how can I stop this? What if I lose her?

“Wow, baby, you must love your diapers! You sure know how to keep a woman busy!”

What other choice do I have but to submit to this humiliating new life?

“Legs up, sweetums! Gotta get all the poopie you left for Mo—me!”

Did she almost say what I think she said?

“All fresh and clean! Doesn’t that feel so much better? No more ickies in your diapee!”

Ugh. It really does.