Mature Marge Disciplines Pet Boy

I had recently decided on a fresh start and took a flight to a different state which followed a bus trip to a town called Moorville. With a fair amount of savings on hand - I decided on a cheap motel stay until I sought permanent accommodation and employment. After about a week into my newfound venture, I noticed an advertisement in the daily telegraph seeking a live-in groundskeeper and handyman. The role was appealing as it would provide income and a roof over my head - the best of both worlds - I figured.

Without wasting any time I decided to call directly, and a woman called Marge answered the phone; she sounded mature in years (around 60 years old, I assumed.) Marge asked me some personal questions about my character and social life. The conversation seemed more like I was answering a lonely Hearts Club ad than a Job opportunity. Nonetheless, I was interested and arranged to meet Marge the following afternoon for an interview.

Tomorrow came and I put on my best white dress shirt with a pair of stylish black pants with leather shoes. I made sure I was clean-shaven and sprayed a subtle amount of aftershave. Being only 25 years old, I figured I looked rather spiffing and met the criteria of being "young and fit" to Quote Marge herself.

As I approached the address, much to my surprise, the property was far larger than I expected. It was a late 1800s Victorian-style mansion that was rather run down and long, with overgrown grass and paint peeling from the walls. It wasn't Buckingham Palace, but the property was impressive enough even though it appeared quite neglected.

Marge answered the door and just as I suspected, she appeared around 60 years old with permed brown hair and was on the larger side of the scale.

She greeted me with a grimace, looked me up and down and inspected me as if I were an ornament at one of the antique sales she probably frequented.

"You must be James," Marge enquired enthusiastically.

"Yes ma'am" I was compelled to respond with the pretence of flattering her.

It appeared my good boy manners and charm paid off and I got the feeling we were off to a good start as we made our way inside and sat down at the table.

Marge began going over the role, and with each piece of detail I was met with a long, dreamy gaze, and I felt she was more interested in checking me out than my qualifications.

Due to Marge being far more mature than I and from a cultivated background, I subconsciously knew my place in the pecking order and felt like I was a chimney-sweeping peasant who was there to serve Royalty. Marge was a dominant character and I felt myself enjoying being submissive and serving her. I wanted to please her, and even though I wasn't physically attracted to her, there was something psychologically attractive about her and the power she possessed over me that was asserting dominance.

With that, I was pleased to find out that I would be starting on Monday, and given that it was Saturday, I moved my stuff over from the motel whilst I had spare time. That evening, around 6pm, Marge explained that "we" were attending church the following morning and, in doing so, she was making decisions for me already. Normally I hated church yet there was something inside me that enjoyed my choices being dictated to and also the fact I wanted to do my best to please Marge ( After all, she was putting a much-needed roof over my head and I appreciate the stability.)

Considering we had an early start tomorrow morning; it was time to bath and get ready for bed. The ordeal was making me feel like a child again, and emotions were flooding back to me I hadn't experienced in years; I enjoyed the comfort and restoration of innocence. Marge directed me to one of the several bathrooms throughout the property, and sitting on a chair were a pair of baby blue cotton pyjamas. I was a bit of a rebel and skater boy at heart who normally wouldn't be seen dead in them. The pyjamas were very tight and made me feel like a total dork; especially because I wasn't just sent to bed straight away. I spent an hour in the living room with Marge before bedtime as she gave me a tour through some of the photos on her walls; meanwhile, the whole time, I felt so embarrassed, humiliated and aroused by wearing these pyjamas. The thought of any visitors or anyone else dropping by and seeing me like this, not to mention the combover-styled hair that Marge instructed me to wear, put me on edge. Thankfully, I later found out that Marge was a recluse and loner, which made me feel safe and protected, and her decrepit mansion was a safe haven between us.

The following morning came and went and I found it difficult to pay attention in church as the priest droned on about irrelevant nonsense. Marge had provided some Sunday best attire that belonged to a grown and long-nephew of hers. The grey shorts came up above the knee and rested halfway down my thigh showing plenty of skin. White socks pulled up 2" below my kneecap and, of course - shirt tucked in with black leather school shoes. The shoes made me feel disciplined and like a total momma's boy in the pre-WW2 era. Much to my relief, I was living in a different state in a new town and would never see anyone I knew. It was revitalising in a way that I was so free from judgment, and none of the nosey clowns from my old life could make comparisons and criticise me. After the service, Marge's contemporaries (all older women), whom we sat around and had cake and drank tea with, were all so impressed with my manners and how I addressed Marge as "Ma'am."

We left the service, and I was feeling cocky and well-pleased with myself as Marge and I made the short stroll around the corner and back to her home. During the walk, I noticed her demeanour change and she appeared slightly moody (as if she had something on her mind.)

Once we got inside, Marge sat me down and informed me there was something she needed to talk to me about and I felt my heart race. She began to grill me about not paying attention in church and how sinful it was. She gestured to the crucifix on the wall and kept mentioning how Jesus suffered a lot of pain on the cross, only for me to be unable to concentrate. I expressed my most sincere apologies and asked how I could be forgiven when Marge stated that only Jesus could forgive me and I needed to ask for forgiveness. Marge then rose to her feet and said, "Come along," and marched me over to the corner where the crucifix was and told me to kneel and close my eyes. Marge instructed me to pray for 5 minutes, close my eyes and seek repentance for my sins.

The entire ordeal felt completely normalised, and there was nothing unusual about it. To Marge, I suppose the insanity of the ordeal was normal; however, I'm certain there were sadistic undertones, and religion was just a scapegoat for a more sinister agenda.

As I was kneeling - I felt so submissive and inferior as I listened to the grandfather clock tick and willifully prayed for forgiveness. My heart was racing, and I'd never felt so alive. I couldn't help but anticipate what was to come, given that my current predicament was so bizarre.

Just as my knees began to hurt, Marge instructed: "To your feet," and I quickly rose. Marge then ordered me to stand in the corner and lean forward and then remarked, "To ensure we don't have a repeat episode of today's behaviour, it's important to put in place appropriate disciplinary measures; after all, Jesus also went through pain for the forgiveness of the world's sins."

Marge then produced a large cane and began tapping it in her palm. I was faintly excited and aroused but never alluded to this and continued to lean forward in my tight grey shorts; my only response was "Yes, ma'am" to anything Marge said.

The first crack sent shockwaves through my whole body. Marge was a large woman and I felt the full force. The cane made me jump forward and momentarily took my breathe away. The hairs on my neck stood up as I repositioned myself whilst Marge told me to place my hands against the wall and spread my legs apart. As she swung the Cane, I could hear the 'whoosh' sound every time and envisioned the wood bending before impact, and it sent vibrations through my core.

After about 15 strokes of the cane, there was sweat beading on my forehead, and I was perspiring from my underarms; there was also pre cum leaking from my cock; however, I was too stunned to maintain an erection after the first caning. Aftercare was important in any sub and domme relationship (I knew this from my days watching porn) as Marge instructed me to bring the scones and afternoon tea to the table. We shared a nice meal, and she lectured me about how it was important to be good in this life and free from our wicked ways.

Once we finished our afternoon tea, Marge told me to read a few passages from the bible she'd chosen as she would later quiz me on my thoughts about them so I went to my room to study.

As 6pm rolled around, Marge informed me that it was "bath time." I rose to my feet, and we entered the bathroom and Marge began to draw the bath. I immediately decided to undress myself and felt my cock rising in the process. I felt extremely comfortable around Marge and was no longer ashamed. She told me to turn around and began inspecting the lash marks across my butt and gently ran her hand across each raised blister. Marge placed some special bath oils in the tub and told me it would help soothe the wounds as I entered the bath with a raging erection. Marge instructed me that I must not touch "it" as she would refer to "it" (My Penis) and "keep my hands where she could see them" as she sat beside me and began reading passages about Babylonian whores, and all kinds of bizarre and erotic bible literature with constant verses about the sinful nature of sex. It never bothered me as just the mentioning of the word sex was turning me on even if the passages were scolding the idea. I felt my cock pulsating between my legs the entire time and clenched my jaw in frustration.

After bath time - I was made to wear the same baby blue pyjamas. This evening Marge sat on her favourite recliner by the fireplace as she commanded that I rub her feet. I felt so pathetic in my blue pyjamas sitting on the ground and rubbing this old lady's feet, yet once again, it turned me on to extremes, and my cock was rock hard through the blue pyjamas.

In the usual fashion, I was sent to bed early, around 7:30pm - I enjoyed the way Marge flicked off the light and treated me like a naughty little boy.

She grilled me on the dangers of masturbation and that it was the desire of the devil as she leaned in and squeezed my cock through my pyjamas and said: "Understood?" which was incredibly erotic considering the room was darkened.

"Yes, ma'am", I replied obediently in my usual response.

I knew that Marge had done my washing and inspected the sheets and socks as I laid there after she left and feeling like I was about to explode. I'd never wanted to cum so hard and badly in my entire life. It had been almost 3 days and I was surely on the verge of a wet dream. The thought of Marge's reaction and punishment for ejaculating terrified and excited me; maybe it was worth it after all. The thought of her finding out and ordering me to "strip" at any given moment and when I least expected to remind me of my place or maybe against the wall again, perhaps over her knee?

Only time would tell...