Tell Me I’m Mummy’s Big, Strong Boy As You Make Me Cum After Ten Seconds Of Humping Your Leg.

Sometimes I write these updates out on the train to work to be published later. I always hope that a woman is going to be sat next to me, reading what’s typed out of the corner of her eye. After a few minutes she’d lean over and whisper “Don’t worry, little boy. Mummy’s found you.”

The idea of being made to get a tramp stamp, and it being referred to as a tramp stamp, so that a mummy can make fun of me and call me a slut and tell me no woman will ever want me, is very very hot.

I just want to stare vacantly at a pretty pink spiral as mummy slides a strap into my ass and tells me what a good boy I’m being.

This morning I was looking at upskirt panties pics in bed (it was a really fun time). I’d forgotten this when I sat down on the tube to work. When I pulled out my phone and unlocked it it was still on a close up shot of a woman bending over. I’m not sure the woman next to me saw but I kind of hope she did. I spent several minutes daydreaming about her publicly shaming me for my filthy perversions.

Really wish I had a domme running my life and keeping me locked for Loctober right now.

“Are you going to thank mummy for making your peeny permanently soft and little and pink? Good boy. You’re very welcome. Now take two fingers and make some quick tug-tugs for mummy before she leaves for her date.”

I want to paint mummy’s toenails for her before she goes out on a date then kiss her feet goodbye and thank her for dating other guys.

“Don’t be silly, baby! Mummy loves your limp, flaccid little baby dick so, so much. I wouldn’t let you make your weak dribble once a week if I didn’t like it, would I? Mummy just needs a big, powerful cock in her every so often to make her feel like a woman. You make mummy feel like a woman in other ways. Ways that don’t involve that cute baby dick of yours.”

I don’t want to be a person. I want to be a drone. Or a baby. Or a puppy…

Earlier today I remembered snitching on a co-worker at my first job. My boss was a woman in her late 40’s or early 50’s called Irene. She usually wore heels and red lipstick and she had big boobs. Looking back she probably contributed to a number of fantasies I have now, and I know from certain things she’d say sometimes that she could sense my submissive nature. Extra impressive as it wasn’t even something I was aware of about myself at the time.

Anyway, I remember a guy about my age telling me he was planning to call in sick on an upcoming Saturday because it was his birthday and he wanted to go out. I laughed along, probably asked him where he’d go. Then as soon as he’d gone I told Irene what he was planning. It was such a weaselly narc thing to do… but I’d absolutely do it again now. And I realise looking back it was because I was desperate for Irene’s approval and for her to tell me I’d done well.

The guy ended up working the Saturday and asked me why I’d told Irene. I completely denied it. Irene was pleased with me so that’s all that matters.