Housewife Made Me Her Little Boy

I’m going to tell you the night I finally admitted I wasn’t a man who “liked a spank now and then.”
I was a man who needed to be broken over a woman’s knee like a naughty little boy, needed the shame, the burn, the tears, the total fucking surrender. And once I tasted it for real, there was no going back.

It started with a message I almost didn’t send.

I’d been married eight years. Good husband on paper. Good provider. Good in bed if you believe the polite moans and the “that was nice, honey.” But every night after she fell asleep I was on my phone, cock in hand, scrolling femdom spanking stories until my eyes burned. I knew every line: the strict wife, the cruel boss, the babysitter who turns the tables. I came so hard to those words I had to bite the pillow so I wouldn’t wake her.

One night I found a private ad. Not an agency. Not a pro-domme with a menu. Just a woman. Thirty-six. Married herself. Looking for one obedient male who understood that real discipline isn’t play. Her name was Rebecca. The photo showed only her hand resting on a wooden hairbrush. That was enough. My cock leaked the second the page loaded.

I wrote to her with the subject line “Please punish me.”
I poured out everything. How I jerked off to being dragged over a woman’s lap. How I fantasized about crying. How I was terrified someone would find out. How I would do anything, anything, if she would just make it real.

She replied in four words: “Friday. 8 p.m. Kneel.”

She gave me an address twenty minutes from my house. A normal suburban street. A normal house with Christmas lights still up in March. My stomach was in knots the whole drive. I parked two blocks away so no neighbor would see my car. I was shaking so hard I could barely text “I’m here.”

The front door opened before I knocked. She stood there in a simple gray dress, barefoot, hair twisted up with a pencil. No makeup except dark red lipstick. She looked like someone’s wife. Someone’s mom. Someone who baked cookies and destroyed men in her spare time.

“Shoes off. No speaking until I allow it.”

I stepped inside. The house smelled like vanilla and something sharper underneath. She closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and the click sounded final.

She didn’t lead me to a dungeon. She led me to the living room. Normal couch. Normal coffee table. Normal lamp glowing soft yellow. Except the coffee table had been pushed aside and in its place was a straight-backed wooden chair. On the chair sat the hairbrush from the photo. And a thick leather belt folded in half.

She sat down, crossed her legs, and looked at me like I was already naked.

“Tell me why you’re here.”

My voice cracked. “Because I need to be spanked, Ma’am. Hard. Like a little boy who’s been bad.”

“Louder.”

“I need a real femdom spanking. I need to cry over your knee. I need you to make it hurt so much I never forget who’s in charge.”

She studied me for a long time. Then she smiled. Not warm. Satisfied.

“Pants and underwear off. Shirt stays on. Over my lap. Now.”

I fumbled with my belt so badly she finally stood up, pushed my hands away, and did it herself. My cock was already rock-hard and dripping. She saw it, raised an eyebrow.

“That won’t be a problem for long.”

She sat again and pulled me down across her thighs. The dress was thin cotton and I could feel the heat of her skin through it. My toes barely touched the floor. My cock pressed against her right leg, trapped and throbbing. She adjusted me roughly until  and vulnerable.

Then she started.

No warm-up. No gentle pats. Just her hand cracking down like a whip. Left cheek. Right cheek. Left. Right. Fast, relentless, the sound filling the quiet room like gunshots. Within ten strokes I was gasping. By twenty I was kicking. By thirty I was begging.

“Please, Ma’am, I’m sorry, I’ll be good—”

“You’ll be quiet,” she said, and brought her hand down harder.

She spanked me until my ass was blazing, until I couldn’t tell where one smack ended and the next began. Then she reached for the hairbrush.

The first stroke with the brush took my breath away. It was solid wood, heavy, the back flat and unforgiving. She swung it like she meant it. Again and again and again. Each impact flattened my cheek and sent shockwaves straight to my balls. I started crying on the eighth one. Real tears, snotty and ugly. I didn’t even try to hide it.

She paused only to push my shirt higher up my back, exposing more skin, and to spread my legs wider so my balls dangled free and helpless.

“You’ve wanted this for years,” she said conversationally, bringing the brush down again. “Every time you read those filthy femdom spanking stories and came all over your hand, this is what you were begging for. Say it.”

“This is what I was begging for,” I sobbed.

“Louder.”

“THIS IS WHAT I WAS BEGGING FOR!”

“Good boy.”

She put the brush down and picked up the belt.

I panicked. “Please, Ma’am, I can’t—”

“You can. And you will.”

She folded my arms behind my back and pinned them there with one hand. With the other she swung the belt. The first lash curled around my ass and bit deep. I screamed. She didn’t pause. She laid stroke after stroke, slow and heavy, covering every inch of skin she’d already punished. The pain was beyond anything I’d imagined. It was white-hot, endless, perfect.

At some point I slipped into a place where the pain and the shame and the arousal all fused into one throbbing thing. I wasn’t a husband anymore. Wasn’t a man with a mortgage and a 401k. I was just a naughty little boy getting exactly what he deserved over a strict woman’s knee.

She must have given me forty or fifty with the belt. When she finally stopped, my ass felt swollen to twice its size. I was crying so hard I could barely breathe.

She let me slide to the floor. I curled at her feet, kissing her bare toes, mumbling thank you thank you thank you like a broken record.

She stroked my hair. Gentle now.

“Stand up. Hands on the mantle. Legs apart.”

I obeyed on wobbly legs. The fireplace was cold, but the wood felt cool against my palms. She stood behind me and ran her fingers over the welts. I flinched at every touch.

“You’re going to count the cane strokes,” she said. “Twelve. And after each one you’ll say ‘Thank you for correcting me, Ma’am.’ If you lose count we start over.”

The first stroke of the cane was thin fire. I screamed the number and the words. The second crossed the first and I nearly collapsed. By six I was dancing on my toes, tears streaming. By ten my voice was gone. The twelfth landed dead center across both cheeks and I came without warning, cock untouched, spurting onto the hardwood floor in thick ropes while my body shook with sobs.

She waited until I was finished, then pressed against my back, her dress soft against my burning skin.

“Look at the mess you made,” she whispered in my ear. “Lick it up.”

I dropped to my knees and licked my own cum off the floor while she watched, one foot resting lightly on the back of my neck.

When I was done she pulled me into her lap on the couch like a child. She held me while I cried it out, stroking my hair, kissing my temple, telling me I was her good boy now.

I left that house walking gingerly, every step agony, every breath a reminder. I drove home with the seat heater off because even the fabric felt like sandpaper. My wife was asleep when I slipped into bed. She rolled over, murmured something sweet, and curled against me.

I lay awake all night feeling the throb in my ass and the wet spot cooling in my boxers from the precum that wouldn’t stop leaking.

That was eighteen months ago.

Rebecca and I meet once a month now. Same house. Same chair. Same hairbrush, worn smooth from my skin. Sometimes she adds new toys. Sometimes she just uses her hand until I’m blubbering. Once she made me wear my wife’s panties and spanked me in them until they were soaked with tears and precum.

I’ve never felt more alive.

If you’re reading this and your cock is hard or your pussy is wet or your chest is tight with that ache you can’t name—listen.

This isn’t fantasy.
This isn’t porn.
This is a woman who will look you in the eye, see every secret you’ve buried, and give you exactly what you’ve been begging the universe for in the dark.

All you have to do is send the message.
All you have to do is knock.
All you have to do is bend over and take the femdom spanking you were born for.

I was terrified once.
Now I count the days until I’m over her knee again, crying like a baby, coming like an animal, and finally, finally at peace.

You can have that too.

Just say yes.