Happy femdom story – Wheldrake

I haven’t received a happy femdom story in my inbox for so long. I do love them so.

This is a story of remote connection and D/s that was born out of a shared love of words and, unlike many other happy femdom stories I’ve shared it, is one that illustrates that D/s relationships do not have to be about romance to thrive and grow and to make the participants happy. Thank you both so much for sharing your story.

Author: Wheldrake

This is not, I have to admit, a love story. It contains no flowers, no walks along the beach at sunset, and only one candle – the one I once used to drip hot wax all over my body in a month when inflicting pain on myself was the only way to earn an orgasm. It’s the story of a submissive man and a multifariously kinky woman who figured out, over the course of many e-mails, that they would both find it fulfilling to be in a relationship in which her word was law and her wish was his command. It’s a happy femdom story about two people who manage to brighten up each other’s lives even though they live far, far apart, both have other primary partners, and have never so much as kissed.

I met Dilo Keith when she was looking for people to read, and comment on, an erotic story she’d written. The story was a little on the cute and fluffy side, by my standards, and it was about kinky gay men, but I was happy to help because she seemed like an interesting person and I think the world needs more good pornography of (nearly) every sort. Exchanging e-mails led to a longer correspondence, which turned a bit flirty, and almost before I knew it – though more than a year after we started writing to each other – I found myself agreeing to do what she told me. We were communicating on the same wavelength, my submissive side was craving a firm hand, and she was interested in exploring dominance and sadism. Our respective partners imposed some reasonable limits on our interactions, but she still had plenty of options for exercising firm, intimate control over various aspects of my life.

Nevertheless, she started slowly, weaving a net that tightened around me by slow, almost imperceptible degrees. Communication continued to be limited to e-mail. She sent me a photo of herself during our transition from friendly pen pals to dominant and submissive, but it didn’t show her face, so I still had no real idea what she looked like. Even more time went by, as I recall, before she had me send a selfie to her. At first, she mostly just instructed me to provide information. She wanted to know what I fantasised about, how I masturbated, what ways of communicating and giving orders I thought I might respond well to, and what kind of underwear I wore. Pretty soon, she was having me wear and buy briefs in certain colours, which was my first real taste of her control. Over time there were more questions, and more firm, precise instructions.

The two of us have been exploring, with her squarely planted in the driver’s seat, the many ways a dominant can use, torment and enjoy a submissive who lives too far away for regular in-person sessions to be a possibility. I edit bits of her writing, contribute to her blog, and entertain her with reports about things that are happening in my life and occasional links to online content – kinky and otherwise – that I think she might appreciate. I scrupulously follow a list of rules that has been growing steadily longer and more restrictive ever since she started to dictate my underwear choices a couple of years ago. Orgasms and chocolate (sometimes even white chocolate!) are verboten without her express permission, alcohol is limited, and when I’m alone in my apartment I wear a collar bearing her special tag. I call her “ma’am” and “My Lady” in my e-mails, and upon tumbling out of bed I plant a mandatory six kisses – three along each instep – on a photo of her boots before getting on with my day. I sometimes refer, less than half jokingly, to the invisible yoke and invisible chastity belt I wear for her.

Now and then, she’ll instruct me to undergo some self-inflicted pain, degradation or discomfort, and let her know how it went. As I write these words, I’m looking forward to a night in a sleeping bag on the floor of my “slave quarters” (also known as my apartment), a small privation that always reminds me of my place and keeps me appropriately humble. My bed will be right there, but I won’t be allowed to use it. Naturally, her methods extend well beyond imposing indoor camping trips. Discreetly tucked away in the slave quarters are clamps and clothespins I sometimes have to apply to sensitive parts of my body, a plug that has been inside me more times than I care to remember, and a genital restraint that makes me feel very intimately caged and constrained every time I have to struggle into it. And then, of course, there’s that candle. Once in a while she’ll have me send a photo or short video of myself suffering through one of these little ordeals, but for the most part I just write to her about them. I’d been her boy and plaything for nearly two years before she finally had me send her a photo that actually showed my penis, a fact that still amazes me when I think about it.

Not quite all of our contact has been in the virtual realm. About a year in, I found myself visiting her part of the world on business, but she was having a busy week and she and her partner are cautious about meeting new people. We had dinner together one night, and then went back to my cramped hotel room for just long enough for me to kneel, kiss her boots in person for a change, and accept the collar I mentioned earlier. Some months later, we managed a brief visit that involved more contact. Among other things, My Lady and her partner took me to a party where I felt both their canes, and they also had me spend a few hours on two successive days performing useful manual labour. Toiling away under their firm supervision reminded me of a long story about voluntary male imprisonment and forced labour that I’ve been writing for both My Lady’s erotic gratification and my own, an excerpt of which can be found on My Lady’s blog. I found out later that the comparison was even more appropriate than I’d guessed. In the story My Lady is a kind of consultant to the prison, exerting considerable influence on how my fellow captives and I are treated while having little direct contact with us, and on the worksite she deliberately adopted a version of that role by taking a hands-off approach and mostly leaving it to her partner to boss me around. By the end of the visit, in short, My Lady had hit me, bit me, and made me sweat, and I felt well used by the time she and her partner dropped me off at the airport.

There will probably be more visits in the future, but most of what we have is online. I’m the first to admit this kind of relationship wouldn’t work for everyone. It works for My Lady and me because we’re both very verbal, cerebral people, perfectly capable of getting turned on by words, because we’ve found or established a style of communication that seems to suit both of us, and because we’re both prepared to put a bit of effort and energy into making it work. My Lady has a way of expressing herself which is calm, thoughtful and understated, but nevertheless does nothing to soften her unapologetic and sometimes gleeful dominance and sadism, and I find that hot as hell. On my side, I seem to be able to write up my adventures and misadventures in ways that amuse her, and I force myself to be very forthcoming and 100% honest even when this entails confessing an embarassing blunder that I know might well get me punished (by having to write lines, for example). It’s all a bit quirky and unlikely, but it’s also remarkably fulfilling for both of us. It’s a happy femdom story!

Wheldrake and his Lady periodically share their thoughts and experiences at Dilo Keith: Writing About Erotic Dominance and Submission.

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This post is part of an ongoing project to share happy, positive femdom relationship stories.  If you have a story and are willing to share it, please email it to me (ferns AT domme-chronicles DOT com).