scrappydo, Mizz Geena’s Mother and an Outing He Won’t Forget

Dear FemdomU Forum,

My name is scrappydo. I am owned by Mizz Geena. I live in her house, I serve her daily, and my body, time, and obedience belong to her. That is my new normal. What is not normal, at least for me, is when her mother comes to stay for the holidays.

I knew she understood exactly what kind of house this is. I knew she knew what I am. What I did not expect was being told, very casually, that for the day I was hers.

She said it like she was borrowing a coat.

That morning she did not just pick out my clothes. She watched me put on every single piece.

She handed them to me one at a time and made me wait between each step. Shirt first, then pants, then socks. She stood close, arms folded, eyes sharp, correcting posture, slowing me down when I moved too quickly. When I buttoned my shirt, she made me undo it and redo it because she said I rushed and it showed in my hands.

When I put on my briefs, she stopped me.

She stepped closer, crouched slightly, and told me not to move. She adjusted the waistband herself, tugging it up, smoothing it flat against my hips. Then she paused, looked, and without asking, reached in just enough to reposition how my package sat inside. Not rough. Not teasing. Just precise, like she was arranging something that belonged where she wanted it.

She told me to stand still while she checked her work.

I could feel my face burning. I was hard, of course, but that did not seem to matter to her at all. She fixed it anyway, then tapped my thigh once and told me I could finish dressing. It felt less like being sexualized and more like being prepared.

Like I was an object being sent out into the world in proper condition.

By the time we left the house, I already felt owned in a different way. Not just by Mizz Geena, but by the woman who had calmly decided that for the day, I was hers to present.

I escorted her to her friend’s house and stayed two steps behind like I was taught.

There were three women there. All around her age, I think in their sixties? All sharp, alert, very aware of me the second I walked in.

I was told to call them Mrs.

Mrs. N was thin, red headed, and never stopped watching me. Her eyes dragged slowly, openly, like she was already deciding what she liked.

Mrs. Singh smiled constantly. Warm, friendly, and when she touched my arm later, shockingly strong. The kind of strength that does not need to prove itself.

Mrs. Cole looked like a grandmother because she was one. Twelve grandkids. Soft voice. Hard eyes. I learned very quickly she was the strict one.

After tea and small talk, Mizz Geena’s mother told me to stand in the middle of the room. She said she wanted a proper look. Then she put on music and told me to make it worth their time.

When she ordered me to strip, it was slow and deliberate. They watched every movement. I was told to turn, to bend slightly, to show myself. When I was naked, my face was hot and my body felt exposed in a way I was not used to. Not rushed. Not grabbed. Just… seen.

They took turns touching me.

Hands on my chest, my arms, my ass. Fingers lifting my chin, guiding my posture, testing how still I could remain. Mrs. N traced me like she was memorizing me. Mrs. Singh squeezed and repositioned me without effort. Mrs. Cole corrected me sharply when I flinched and reminded me to stand properly if I was going to be displayed.

I was not allowed to touch myself. I was not allowed to speak. I was passed between them, turned, positioned, evaluated. I lost track of time somewhere in the middle of it.

Then the music stopped. Mizz Geena’s mother clicked her tongue once and the room fell silent. “Kneel,” she said, voice calm as cream. I folded down onto the rug, knees apart, hands behind my back, the way I was taught. The carpet burned but I didn’t shift. Mrs. Cole produced a small velvet ribbon from her pocket… deep green, the color of holly. She tied it around the base of my cock, snug, deliberate, like gift-wrap. The bow sat straight. “Pretty,” Mrs. Singh murmured. “Functional,” Mrs. N corrected. “Keeps him presentable.” They stood in a half-circle, four judges at an auction. Mizz Geena’s mother lifted my chin with two fingers. “You’ll serve tea now,” she decided. “Naked, bowed, silent. Spill nothing. Speak to no one unless asked. Understand?”

And I did. I served tea with the ribbon tight around my swollen cock, the velvet chafing with every step. I poured from the left, my erection brushing against Mrs. Singh’s silk-clad shoulder as I leaned in. She didn’t flinch, just reached back and flicked the head with her fingernail, sending a jolt through me that nearly made me spill. Mrs. Cole noticed and pinched my inner thigh hard enough to leave a mark, whispering “Steady” against my hip. The ladies discussed their grandchildren while I stood exposed between them, my skin prickling under their casual touches, a palm sliding up my thigh, fingernails tracing the curve of my ass, Mrs. N deliberately brushing her breasts against my cock when reaching for sugar. After thirty excruciating minutes, Mrs. N finally set down her cup with purpose. “Enough small talk,” she announced, spreading her legs to reveal damp silk panties beneath her skirt.

“Boy, get over here and lick my pussy before it completely dries out. And if you make me wait another second, I’ll have you caned while you do it.”

And with that, I was on my knees between her legs, her panties dragged down to her ankles with my teeth as she’d commanded. Mrs. N’s thighs clamped around my ears, her fingers digging into my scalp, forcing my face deeper against her sex. Her scent was sharp, intoxicating, her taste like salt and musk on my desperate tongue. I worked in the patterns Mizz Geena had trained into me: circles, then flat strokes, then focused attention on her swollen clit. Mrs. N wasn’t gentle. She ground against my face, smearing her wetness across my lips and chin, using me like a tool made for her pleasure. When she came, she didn’t bother to stifle her cries, her thighs trembling against my cheeks, her fingers twisting painfully in my hair.

“Next,” Mizz Geena’s mother announced, yanking me up by the ribbon still tied around my throbbing cock. Mrs. Singh guided me to her with a crooked finger, but before I could kneel, she produced a thin leather crop from beside her chair. “Pleasure without pain is like tea without sugar,” she said, striking my inner thighs with precise, stinging blows that made me gasp. Mrs. Cole joined in, her soft grandmother hands surprisingly cruel as she twisted my nipples while Mrs. Singh’s crop found every sensitive spot on my body. By the time I reached Mizz Geena’s mother, tears streaked my face, my cock was leaking despite the ribbon, and welts crisscrossed my thighs. She made me beg for the privilege of tasting her, then had me count each stroke of a wooden paddle against my ass while I lapped at her. These women broke me down completely, rebuilding me into something that existed solely for their use.

When it was over, I was dressed again just as carefully as I had been undressed. Quiet. Shaky. Used in a way that felt deliberate and complete.

When I got home, Mizz Geena knew immediately. She always does.

I am still processing what it meant to be taken for the day, shared without question, and returned changed. I learned that obedience does not stop at my Domme’s door. Sometimes it extends farther than I imagined.

I did my best to serve well.

scrappydo