My Journey Into A Loving Female Led Relationship: Chapter 24

My name is John, though I go by rgjohn, and I’ve written a few erotic books and some content for Literotica. When Emma read my work, she suggested I write about loving, female-led relationships—a genre she’s passionate about. It’s been a while since I’ve written, but a fan recently reignited my interest by asking me to turn his detailed journal into a story. Initially skeptical, I found myself captivated by his account of a Female-Led Relationship (FLR), a concept I hadn’t explored before. With a mix of curiosity and research, I’ve decided to craft a multi-part story spanning over 20 chapters. If you are just starting, you should begin your journey back at chapter 1.

Chapter 24: Journal Discovered, Punishment Chair

For those reading this story, I neglected to mention that I used my personal journal to write this story for my wonderful wife. In the beginning she didn’t know that I had kept a journal, not only about our FLR, but years before when I was much younger and struggling with shyness and awkwardness. Anna happened to find it when looking for something in my office. I wasn’t trying to hide it, I just didn’t think it was important. I was wrong.

I was working to file legal documents for Anna when she walked into her office. I realized that she had a binder in her hand. I wasn’t sure what it was until she spoke.

“Jason, what’s this?” she said, holding up the rather thick journal type notebook.

Suddenly I realized what it was… it was the journal with which I would write this story. I had kept it since we started on our journey, but had never mentioned it to Anna. It wasn’t that I was keeping it from her, it was it was just something I did for my own peace of mind. I had kept a journal since I was a teenager. Years ago, at fourteen, I was a gangly boy, shy and unsure, my journal helped me work through my issues. I wasn’t popular with girls, not because I was unattractive, but because I was too hesitant to approach them. Acne speckled my skin, and my thin frame only made me more self-conscious. Writing was my escape, my way of processing everything I couldn’t say out loud. I chronicled my frustrations, my fascinations, my times of depression, much of it boring to anyone by me.

“Uh… that’s a personal journal I have been keeping about my feelings,” I said, now nervous that I hadn’t told her about it.

“So you have been keeping a journal without me knowing,” she said.

“Well, I guess. I … I mean I didn’t think it would… you know … interest you,” I stammered.

“Really? You didn’t think I would want to know everything about you?” she said.

“Well, I’m … I mean I wasn’t hiding if from you. Uh … I have been keeping a journal for years … since I was 14. It’s pretty boring. I … uh … started the one you have now long after we began our journey.” I said. Suddenly the realization of what I had done came over me like a cloud. I honestly didn’t want to hide anything from her. I just used it for my own solace, or mental health. Now I realized how it looked… to her it meant I was hiding something from her.

I couldn’t read Anna… was she mad at me, sad, pensive… it worried me.

I said, “Listen, my early journal is in my desk drawer. Let me get it. You can read it first and then the one you have. I want you to know everything about me, I just though we had covered most of it in our love making sessions.”

I hurried and got my old journal and gave it to her. She went to her bedroom to read it. She didn’t say anything as she walked away. That worried me.

I was ready to fix dinner when Anna walked back into her office carrying my journal. I was shocked to see that she had tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked with concern.

“This,” she said, holding up my earlier journal.

I felt my head spinning. I wondered what she had read that made her so upset. “I don’t understand,” I said.

“I never knew that you had… well, had serious depression when you were younger,” she said.

“Oh, well, neither did I. I just figured it was normal teenage worries,” I said.

“Did you ever get any help … did you tell your parents? Jason, you said you were close to suicide,” she said.

“No, I mean, I didn’t think anyone would really care one way or the other. Or even that it was unusual. I didn’t have many friends, and I wasn’t going to tell my parents. I got over it. Well, at least until our initial problems with my masturbation. I admit I was pretty depressed then,” I said.

“Jason, I wish I had known… maybe I could have dealt with it differently. I was so insensitive,” Anna said, now sobbing.

I jumped up and hugged her. “No, no, no. I shouldn’t have let you read that. You saved my life. What you did was exactly right. You took control and didn’t let me feel sorry for myself. I have never been depressed from that day on… never. You were and are exactly what I needed.”

“But I could have… I don’t know, helped more, or something. I could have done things … or do things now differently.”

“No, no, you couldn’t and you shouldn’t. Please don’t change anything. We have come too far to go back and have regrets. I have none … zero. I love you more than anything in the world. I don’t want you to be anyone but yourself. Please don’t change,” I begged.

I led her to the sofa, and we sat down to make love. But it wasn’t easy, Anna was struggling, burdened by the belief that she had let me down, that she had ignored my needs. None of it was true.

Gently, I asked her to read my current journal. Then, I told her, tell me if you still believe you’ve done anything wrong. She only had half the story, the least important half.

Over the next few days, Anna spent her spare moments immersed in my words. I watched as something shifted in her. The weight she had been carrying seemed to lighten, her demeanor softened, and slowly, she became the Anna I knew… the Anna I loved. No, more than that, she became an even better version of herself. She saw the truth in what I had told her: she hadn’t failed me. She had saved me. She had guided me through my struggles, lifted me up, and in doing so, made me a better man, a better husband.

When she finally came into my room, journal in hand, a radiant smile lit up her face. My heart quickened… how I had missed that smile.

“Thank you, Jason,” she said, placing the journal down. “I love your writing, and I hope you never stop. Reading the first one, then this one, made me realize what we have… what we built together… is the best possible world. The things you wrote, the way you described our journey… it made me laugh, made me cry. It filled my heart with pride… and, most of all, with love. I love you so much.”

It was my turn to cry. I said, “What I want you to do is to continue reading my journal. You can do it as often as you like.”

Anna thought for a moment and said, “I’m not sure I want to do that. I don’t want you to write your journal for me. I want it to be for you.”

I smiled and said, “I promise I will write it the same way I always have. In fact, I wrote it as if you would read it even though I didn’t allow you to. So I won’t change anything. We then will be able to talk about it whenever you like.”

Anna nodded and said, “Okay, but as long as you promise not to change anything.”

“Scouts honor,” I said holding my hand up as my pledge.

Then I did what I knew always pleased Anna so much… I pleasured her with my mouth until she passed out in sheer bliss. The world was good again.

Anna began to read my journal about once a month. It did change her, but for the better. She now knew all my deepest thoughts, my fears and my hopes. She knew what I liked and didn’t like, and we were able to discuss those.

The new and improved Anna became even more intrigued by her power, her dominance over me, specifically discipline. It was obvious that she saw it as a good thing and something I needed. She decided not to have me keep a record of my demerits anymore… since I always had them… instead she gave me “maintenance discipline.” Each week she gave me what she thought I deserved, sometimes even when I hadn’t really done anything wrong.

To her credit, she approached the new discipline process with remarkable creativity, often surprising me with her inventive ideas. She seemed to genuinely enjoy exploring new methods, continually discovering fresh ways to keep me in line, and motivated. To my own surprise, I found the experience both fascinating and, admittedly, painful. But necessary… I had no time or inclination to be depressed or feel sorry for myself.

One particularly memorable innovation involved, in addition to the traditional corner time for rule violations, she added something far more intense. Instead of always standing in the corner to reflect, Anna instructed me to stand on a stool in front of the large living room windows. With my face, body, and chastity cage pressed against the cold glass, the exposure was as humiliating as it was uncomfortable. The chill of the glass, in contrast to my burning ass, amplified the discomfort, and while our building was the tallest on this side of the city, there was still the unsettling possibility of being seen. A low-flying airplane, or helicopter, a passing drone, or even a curious observer with a strong telescope could easily catch a glimpse. The thought added an extra layer of tension to the experience, making it an effective and unforgettable form of discipline.

Anna also took a distinct preference for disciplining me in front of those same windows, now using a custom-made spanking stool designed to her specifications. At first glance, it appeared to be a perfectly normal ottoman, covered in high-quality leather that blended seamlessly with the rest of our furniture. However, its true purpose was far more unique. The stool could be adjusted to different heights, ranging from just a foot off the ground to as much as three feet, depending on Anna’s needs or preference for the moment. Hidden straps were cleverly integrated into its design, allowing her to secure me to the stool when necessary.

Despite its role in my discipline, the stool was surprisingly comfortable… at least physically. Emotionally and psychologically, however, it added to the intensity of the punishment. With the cold glass of the windows framing the scene and the ever-present possibility of being observed, the experience became an even more effective demonstration of Anna’s authority and creativity.

But Anna’s real stroke of creativity came when she had an antique Victorian chair delivered to our home. I was surprised, to say the least, but I had to admit it was a stunning piece of furniture. Its elegant design fit perfectly with Anna’s current décor. The chair was large and ornate, exuding an air of regal authority that made it look like it could have graced a queen’s throne room in the 1800’s. The carved wood was masterfully detailed, and the seat was padded with exquisite craftsmanship, offering both comfort and beauty.

However, Anna didn’t see it merely as a decorative addition. To her, the chair wasn’t just furniture… it was a tool that seamlessly blended with the discipline aspect of our lifestyle. She would use it to sit and relax during pauses in my punishment, effortlessly radiating the aura of a stern but undeniably beautiful queen. Or, it was a perfect place for me to tend to her needs, like giving her a pedicure or more intimate services. Watching her seated there, with her regal posture and commanding presence, reinforced her authority in ways words could not.

Anna’s ingenuity didn’t stop at appearances. She had me locate a skilled woodworker to craft an additional component for the chair… a custom seat designed specifically for punishment. This simple yet clever addition consisted of a matching wooden insert that could be discreetly slipped under the cushioned seat, remaining completely unnoticed during normal use. However, when needed, the insert could be pulled out and securely attached over the cushion.

This alternate seat was covered with a durable but deliberately uncomfortable material, designed to make sitting an ordeal in itself. It became a central feature of my post-discipline reflection. Instead of standing in the corner, at the window, or kneeling elsewhere, Anna often had me sit on the chair’s modified seat to contemplate my misbehavior. The contrast between the chair’s regal appearance and its punishing purpose made it a symbol of her control. It was always a object of curiosity when we had social gatherings at the condo.

After some trial and error, Anna determined that the chair was most effective after she had used the paddle rather than the cane. I quickly discovered why. Sitting on that unforgiving surface with a blistered, paddle-warmed backside was excruciatingly effective as a deterrent. Fifteen minutes was more than enough for me to deeply regret whatever misstep had led me there. To ensure I remained still and endured the full impact, Anna often used restraints to prevent me from lifting myself or squirming too much. It didn’t take long for the chair to become a source of dread. Just the sight of it sent a shiver down my spine, especially since Anna reserved it for my most serious transgressions.

One particularly memorable occasion was the time I entered Anna’s bedroom without knocking. I had assumed she was out for her morning jog, but to my shock, I walked in to find her still in bed, completely naked, using her personal pleasuring device. The moment was mortifying for both of us, though she quickly recovered from her shock and became absolutely livid at my intrusion. Her fury was off the charts, and she wasted no time in addressing the situation.

She sent me straight to her bathroom to get her hairbrush, a punishment implement I had come to fear more than the paddle, or even the cane. Without delay, she sat on the bed, pulled me across her lap, and unleashed her anger with a flurry of swats. I lost count of how many I received; all I could register was the searing pain and the intensity of her resolve. When she finally stopped, I naively hoped she might put me in the corner or at the window for reflection. But Anna had other plans.

Instead, she strapped me to the chair for a full half hour. Sitting on the abrasive, punishing surface with my freshly punished backside was an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone. As I sat there immobilized, Anna stood before me, delivering a pointed lecture on the importance of her privacy. She made it abundantly clear how humiliated and violated she felt by my careless intrusion. Her words cut as deeply as the punishment itself, driving home the gravity of my mistake.

I was utterly mortified, both by the situation and my inability to defend myself. I knew I had no excuse; I had disrespected her boundaries, and her reaction was justified. To say I was in the “dog house” afterward would be an understatement. That day left a lasting impression on me, both physically and emotionally. The memory of that punishment, and the chair’s unforgiving lesson, ensured I never repeated the same mistake again.

The chair had another purpose that made it an integral part of our relationship. Its height was perfect for me to kneel and pleasure Anna after my discipline sessions, a ritual that never failed to arouse her. There were also times when Anna would have me sit on the chair, always on the punishment seat, while she teased and denied me. Sometimes she would even sit on my lap, pressing my disciplined ass even harder onto the rough surface of the seat, with my penis sticking up between her legs as she stroked me and ultimately denied me. You would think that it would have been difficult for me to get hard in that position… but you would be wrong.

The combination of discomfort and her deliberate control was always exciting, but more importantly, a potent reminder of her authority, one that heightened the intimacy and connection between us.

What truly elevated the chair’s significance was a personal touch I added for Anna. I commissioned a plaque to commemorate its place in our lives. The plaque, which was on the wall above the chair, was crafted to match the chair’s ornate design, with a wooden frame and a striking black onyx insert. Engraved on it were the lyrics from the song “Take Forever”, words that held a deep and personal meaning for both of us. At the bottom of the plaque, I had inscribed a heartfelt message: “I LOVE YOU, ANNA, FOREVER. JASON.”

Continue to Chapter 25