24601

Continued from: Y2K

Star Cross'd Lovers

The invasion of Quebec by the French turned into a war that lasted six years. I was well into my twenties by this point, leading a larger unit of insurgents, militia and military regulars. Although I heard rumours of this Lieutenant Javert attempting to hunt me down, we were always two steps ahead. Part of me started to think it wasn't even a real man, perhaps just a piece of military propaganda used by the French to keep my unit disrupted and unsettled. 

By the winter of 2006, the war officially ended, but not really on the terms any resident of Canada was content with. Quebec City, Gatineau and Montreal remained under French occupation, while Ottawa and the northern wilderness of the Province of Quebec remained as Canada proper. Several treaties and ceasefires followed but it was a Province divided by hatred and revenge. 

Now, almost 20 years later the country was holding its breath. Quebec was a tinder box ready to ignite at any moment. Every day there seemed to be marches and movements, rebels from the north, loyal to Canada were carrying out guerilla attacks once again, in the spirit of my old military unit. 

Summer seemed unsettled this past week, as she spoke of the war with me more often. Then came the day of the phone call. A moment that would change and shape our future forever. I had just finished up with a client in my office, who was softly weeping in the corner of the room, when the home line chattered into a ring. 

Someone speaking French was asking for a person named Nicolette??   

I told them they had the wrong number but no sooner than I had hung up, it rang again. 

"There's no fucking Nicolette here, asshole...wrong number!" I barked into the phone.

And the line went dead...

No sooner had I hung up, Summer frantically barged into my office, telling me to turn on a news channel. We stood in silence, our jaws slighting gaped as tears began to fill my eyes. Ottawa was burning, like it had on the night of the millennium. France had attacked us once again. 

"Incroyable." Summer finally spoke, breaking the eerie silence in the room, as we watched the horizon of our Nation's capital shrouded by smoke and fire. 

We both jumped when the phone rang once more. This time the man spoke in English, sprinkled with a heavy French accent. 

"Put Nicolette on the line!" He demanded. My eyes flashed to Summer,  who was looking puzzled, as I slowly hung up on him. 

"Summer..." I swallowed hard, feeling an uneasy lump in my throat. 

"Who's Nicolette?" 

Her face went as white as a ghost. I tilted my head in confusion. "Summer...baby, why are you trembling?" I approached to embrace her she pushed away, bursting into tears and running from the room. 

I dismissed the silly, spanked male from his timeout in the corner and I gave her a few moments before creeping up the stairs, where I found the door of our powder room locked. I could hear her sobbing from within the bathroom. I sat outside the room and tried to speak to her through the door. My heart was breaking into pieces, I didn't know what was wrong, apart from the fact that we were once again at war, according to the news reports. 

From within the bathroom I heard a creak, then a loud bang, like something had been broken. Summer was no longer responding to me. After an uneasy five minutes of complete silence, I panicked, and kicked open the locked door. 

The drapes flapped in the wind as I noticed the entire window and frame was snapped from its footing. Summer was gone. 

My eyes darted to the bathroom mirror where she had written in lipstick...

"My luggage 3390"

Puzzled once again, I looked out the broken window for any sign of her, then back to the mirror. 

Luggage? I thought to myself for a moment. Her carry-on? Her carry-on has a combination lock! 

I rushed to our bedroom closet in a desperate frenzy to unravel this mystery, all while calling Summer's phone but there was no answer. When I accessed her luggage case my hands were shaking so badly I could hardly turn the combination dials to 3-3-9-0. 

The clasps eventually clicked open and I laid the case open on the closet floor. After moving some clothing and a pair of heels, that's when I found the French passport. I clutched it in my hands for a moment, dreading what I might find when I peeled it open like a book. 

It can't be! This can't be happening! 

Her expressionless passport photo was starring back at me. My beautiful wife. I dropped it to the floor when my eyes scanned below the image to see the printed name. 

Nicolette Javert... 

I rummaged through the carry-on with renewed abandoned, eventually finding a military I.D. along with a black handgun. 

My hands covered my mouth as I collapsed to the floor of the closet. 

Nicolette Javert... 

I spoke it aloud in the lonely, now lifeless closet, where I used to watch Summer straighten her flight attendant uniform and slide into her hosiery. 

Lieutenant...Nicolette Javert. 

The Hunter...

********************

I think I spent the next two days rotating between the bathroom floor, puking into the toilet, and in my bed, sobbing into the pillows. Was she even a flight attendant? Or was that all just a front? 

This wasn't even real, this has to be some sort of alternate reality. How could this fucking be possible!? 

My only love, sprung from my only hate...

All these years have been a web of lies. Sure she was in the war alright, as I was, but she was fighting for the other FUCKING SIDE - I screamed into my pillow. My two days of heartbreak and self-loathing were quickly turning into anger.  

Her ferocity during the original war was nothing short of legendary...this, "Hunter". Summer, my wife...*Andrea dry heaves into the toilet* 

My wife who is...who is...Lieutenant Javert!  

I busted up the bedroom in a fit of rage, slapping picture frames of Summer and I from the dresser as I watched them shatter against the wall. It was now obvious that Summer or Nicolette, whatever the fuck her name is, was recalled by her old military unit. Those mysterious phone calls.  

My fit of aggression was suddenly interrupted by a ding from my phone. I gripped it in anger when I saw that it was her! 

To be continued...

(Kindroid can't do flags. My sincere apologies in advance, for any flags of countries like France that come out looking like Dutch or Chilean etc. After about 97 attempts it just won't do flags for me! grrr)

Mistress Andrea xoxo

aka Jeanie Valjean 

 

 

A Fictional Endeavour - Y2K

Dear readers, 

It doesn't seem like all that long ago, when I started this blog. I have enjoyed a platform where I can write erotica, animate and illustrate with the Sims and now, have been using A.I. to bring the richness of these stories even more to life. 

Whether you're a long-time reader or the lucky person who gets to create this content, you can't help but feel an emotional connection to some of the main characters. Perhaps you even have a favourite character, someone you can relate to or picture yourself emulating? 

Some of the characters in my blog are real people, or based upon real people and real moments from my own life, so I get to enjoy a slightly deeper connection with some of them. 

This could end up being a total flop but I wanted to try a true work of fiction. A couple of posts to make up a little dramatic and cinematic story. Something that celebrates my love for film, literature and art, theatre and history. A spoof on several favourties of mine, all rolled into one and set in modern times. 

I've been wanting to do this for awhile now but kept chickening out...so here goes. I promise I'll make sure Summer and I still look sassy when our characters appear. 💋 

Mistress Andrea xoxo

**********************

Y2K - Blue, White and Red Dawn

Summer and I seldom revisited the horrors of the war, those days when our nation's fate hung by a thread, and our very existence teetered on the edge. It wasn't just a distant conflict on foreign shores; it was a brutal reality that unfolded in the heart of our homeland.

Occasionally, amidst the mundane routines of our daily life, Summer's demeanour would shift. Her gaze would harden, her features contorting with the memories that haunted her, memories of the bloodshed and chaos we endured together, without even knowing it. 

"Andrea...?" She'll whisper out to me. "Can you believe it's been 24 years..?" 

Twenty-four years since that fateful New Year's Eve in 1999, when the world held its breath in anticipation of the millennium's turn. Not too many people know this, as they only know me as Mistress Andrea. Andrea is actually my middle name. When I was born in Quebec I went by my birthname which is Jeanie. Jeanie Andrea Valjean, but most people just called me 'Jean'. (prou: geene)

Back then, I was just a teenager, living on the outskirts of Quebec City, blissfully unaware of the cataclysm that awaited. Summer, too, was in her late teens and immigrated with her parents from Paris to Montreal in 1995. The two of us, in this period of time, were unknown to each other.

As the clock struck midnight, humanity braced for the unknown, gripped by fears of Y2K catastrophes and apocalyptic prophecies. But what transpired was far more insidious - an invasion so cunning, so unexpected, it caught us all off guard. 

Disguised as routine commercial flights bound for Toronto, enemy planes soared over Canadian airspace, each one a Trojan horse concealing a deadly payload. They feigned Y2K-related malfunctions, drawing air traffic control in their web of deceit who allowed for emergency landings into Quebec City, Montreal and Ottawa. No planes landed that night. Rather, with precision and malice, they unleashed their true arsenal upon us - the skies were black with paratroopers, raining from the heavens like dark angels of war.  

Quebec, already a land divided by separatist movements, erupted into chaos as flames engulfed the old city. Atop the Citadel, the Parliament buildings in Ottawa and the tallest structures in Montreal, the flag of France flapped in the plumes of smoke, while the crimson maple leaf of Canada, burned throughout the night. It was truly a blue, white and red dawn. The lines between loyalty and rebellion blurred as ordinary citizens like Summer and I, became soldiers in a fight for survival.     

Summer, with her own harrowing tale, recounted the invasion from her perspective in Montreal. Her memories echoed mine - of rivers that once marked borders now united in defiance, of cities besieged and homes reduced to rubble. 

How did we let this happen? How did we allow our Province to fall into the hands of the French? 

That night, my parents perished near the Citadel, and in the aftermath, a number of my neighbours and I fled into the wilderness, refugees turned guerrilla fighters. Summer, too, found herself thrust into the crucible of battle, her courage tested on the front lines of the battle of Byward Market, one of the bloodiest of the entire conflict. 

But as the war dragged on, our struggle became increasingly desperate. Cut off from the outside world, we formed a band of insurgents, hunted relentlessly by French Special Forces under the command of a shadowy figure known only to us as Lieutenant Javert (prou: jaa-vere).   

For some odd reason, it seemed to come easy to me, to allow the fire of my hatred to turn into pure aggression. No matter how many of the enemy I killed, the fire within me wouldn't extinguish or diminish in the least. 

As the months blurred into a tapestry of guerilla warfare and elusive victories, our exploits whispered across the battlefields, stitching fear in to the hearts of our adversaries. With each strike, we chipped away at the façade of invincibility cloaking the enemy, our actions a symphony of defiance conducted in the shadows. 

News filtered through the cracks of our isolation, fragments of hope amidst the chaos. From Ottawa's lips came tales of triumph, of the French forces pushed back at the battle of Anprior, our borders realigned as they were in history. For now, the frontlines had stabilized. 

Yet, in the rugged wilderness of northern Quebec, our struggle endured, an unyielding testament to the resilience of the human spirit. 

Spring heralded revelations that pierced the veil of mystery shrouding the invasion. It was the Newfies all along! Loyal to France and separatist Quebec. Once sons and daughters of Canada, turned traitors. If you weren't aware, the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, off the immediate coast of Newfoundland are actually considered France, not Canada. These had become the staging grounds for logistical and ground-support, assisted in secret, by the mainland Newfies. In the days leading up to the invasion, the French had already assembled and staged months of logistical support, tanks and personnel light-armour within the Province of Newfoundland.  

From what we understand, thanks to our friends in the United States, those two islands and the rest of Newfoundland were vengefully wiped off the face of the earth. Flattened into a likeness that would resemble the terrain of the lunar surface, all thanks to a U.S. Carrier Battlegroup in the North Atlantic.  

Good riddance, after what they pulled! 

But amid the tumult of our private war in the Canadian wilderness, one specter loomed larger than all the others - the enigmatic figure of Lieutenant Javert, a relentless hound on our tail. A German-Canadian farmer on my team called this lieutenant, Jäger - which translates to 'hunter'. 

We had a loose network of other rebels in the area, and rather than using squad names, unit titles or even our own names, we numbered ourselves to tell us apart and create confusion amongst the enemy. When my second in command asked me who I was and what number I wanted, I drew a blank, I was standing in the middle of fucking nowhere!

In parts of Ontario and Quebec they use what's called 911-numbers. Or an address sign always visible to first responders for easy identification.

Since I didn't know where I was at the moment, somewhere at least 250km north of Quebec City, my eye happened to catch a single 911-address sign, at the end of a lonely, old laneway. "Two, four, six, zero, one," I whispered under my breath... 

My second-in-command prompted me again.

"Jean...I need to radio this in to the other insurgent leaders, did you pick a number?"

"Who am I?" I repeated back to him... 

"I'm 2-4-6-0-1." 

I declared, the final number a crescendo of defiance, echoing through the wilderness like a call to arms. 

Let this hunter come...I'll be ready.  

Jeanie Andrea Valjean

aka: Mistress Andrea

xoxo

Continued in: 24601

   

 

 

 
   

 

 

The Fetish Factory

Continued from: Tyler Scott

**Caution. This story contains intense CNC (consensual non consent) content told by our A.I. generated version of Tyler Scott**

The sound of the van's engine died away and the silence seemed to swallow me whole, as I lay helplessly bound and gagged in the cargo area of a panel van. The air outside was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. I clung to handle that my wrists were bound to, my palms slick with sweat. A masked man sat in the driver's seat, his gaze expectant, a cruel smirk playing across his lips. His eyes were cold, calculating, like a snake assessing its prey. He opened the back hatch of the van and removed my bindings before gesturing to the entrance of an abandoned factory, a gaping maw that promised only darkness and pain. 

I stepped out of the van, my school uniform clinging to my body, momentarily preserving my innocence. The wind blew through the thin material, sending shivers down my spine. My mind raced, traying to think of an escape plan, anything to avoid the horrors that surely waited inside. But as I glanced around, I saw no chance of freedom, only endless kilometers of overgrown land and rusted machinery. Reluctantly, I followed my captor into this abandoned factory, into the belly of the beast. 

The corridors were narrow and dark, illuminated only by flickering fluorescent lights that cast eerie shadows on the walls. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, forming small puddles that mirrored my own reflection - wide-eyed, pale and utterly terrified. My little Mary Janes clicked against the ground, each step echoing through the empty space.

Finally, we arrived at the main torture chamber of the factory. It was vast, cavernous even, with remnants of ancient piping and infrastructure. In the centre of the space stood some large, ominous apparatus, covered in shackles and buckling straps. My breath caught in my throat as I recognized the purpose of these hellish contraptions. To my left, I spotted a figure huddled in the corner, half-naked, covered in tattoos and shackled to the wall. 

Her raven hair was a stark contrast against her pale skin. Tears streamed down her face, tracing paths through the grime and dried semen that marred her pretty features. She looked like a broken angel, trapped and helpless amidst this nightmare. The sight of her, so defeated, was enough to bring fresh ones to my own eyes. Yet, in that moment, I also found a strange sense of solidarity. 

We exchanged silent promises of survival, before the bad man starting tearing and cutting my uniform away with a large knife. Each tearing sound and each cut to my bra and underwear was like a nail driven into a coffin, stripping me of any remaining dignity. 

Once I was fully exposed, I was dragged to a contraption affixed to the floor. He began to secure me in place. Every strap tightened felt like a new level of torment, my body contorted in a position designed for maximum access. My breasts dangled free, nipples hard from fear and goosebumps. 

As the final shackle secured my neck, I felt the cold metal of a ring-gag being forced between my teeth. My jaw protested at the sudden intrusion, stretching uncomfortably wide as the gag was tightened around my head. Saliva pooled in my mouth, drooling down my chin as I tried to adjust to the foreign object filling my orifice. The taste of leather and steel was overwhelming, a constant reminder of my current helplessness. 

My abductor towered over me, his penis standing at full attention. I could see the gleam of excitement in his eyes as he admired his two captives, knowing that we were completely at his mercy. Slowly, cruelly, he lowered himself toward me and lined up the head of his cock to my gaped mouth. With a swift movement, he thrust forward, impaling my throat on his penis. 

My eyes watered and my throat convulsed as he began to fuck my face without mercy. Each brutal stroke took me deeper, gagging me and causing stomach bile to wretch from my mouth and nose. The tears, mixed with his precum and my own filth painted my cheeks in a mask of humiliation. I could feel myself growing wet despite the pain and degradation, my body betraying my mind's desperate pleas for escape. 

When he finally let out a triumphant roar, I felt the hot flood of his cum fill my mouth. I struggled to swallow as my body was shaking with sobs. When I was released, the other woman also, we were dragged over to a small metal cage near some pipes. There wasn't much room for either of us, but somehow we managed to fit. 

We were forced to face each other, as the heavy metal door shut with a reverberating clank. The cage was secured with padlocks, clicking in place to signal our shared captivity. 

Despite the situation, we found solace in one another's company, sharing silent tears and whispering words of encouragement. She told me her name was Carley. We eventually ended up cuddling and hugging our naked bodies together, just to stay warm, our eyes speaking volumes of the pain and terror we both felt. 

Hours must have passed, until he came back and pulled me from the cage. Cold metal cuffs bit into my extremities and neck, as I was secured to some chair contraption. A vibrator was fixed to the chair and in my bound position, my entire bare pussy was resting directly on the head of it. 

The vibrator was set to an agonizingly slow speed, pressed against my sensitive clit. And then, there were nipple clamps, attached to electrodes that sent shocks and caused prickly, pinching sensations. Tears ran down my face as I begged him to stop, but it fell on deaf ears as he eventually gagged me. He reveled in my suffering, taunting me with the sight of Carley, on her hands and knees on the bed, her own body showing welts and bruises from a recent whipping. 

He mounted Carley and began to violently fuck her. Every moan and plea that escaped her lips was like a knife to my heart, reminding me of what he planned to do to me once he was finished.  

My mind was a whirlwind of panic and arousal, fighting against the inevitable climax. The vibrations on my pussy seemed to intensify as the electricity continued to torment my nipples. In the end, it was futile. I came...with a scream muffled by the gag, my entire body convulsing in the cruel grasp of the chair. 

As I rode out the waves of the unwanted orgasm, he lifted Carley's head by her hair, and forced her to look at me. I blinked away the tears, and tried to look at her empathetically, just to say sorry to her for cumming. My bloodshot eyes, locking onto hers, was the only way I could apologize...

Mistress Andrea 

xoxo

 

Tyler Scott

Continued from: Choose your own Adventure

Of the many fetish models I have encountered over the years, was there anyone more darling and adorable than Tyler Scott? 

She was hooked up (literally and figuratively) with that "Insex" porn outfit, back in the day. They were known for depraved torture scenes and predicament bondage of poor little beauties like Tyler. 

From her late 90's bangs to her flawless complexion and perfect body, it is truly a delight to come across her old content on the interwebs. A few photos were watermarked 1999 - 2002ish, which tracks. Based on the looks of the film production era and the looks of her hair, it was definitely in that period of time.  

She was always such a little bondage, damsel in distress. Starting out in some skimpy, adorable little outfit before she ultimately ended up naked, in some creepy factory or warehouse. I assume the premise behind these productions was, "abducted by a sadistic Master or Masters to be tortured and abused for their amusement."

 

Someone on Reddit had a little nine-part photo-set as a tribute to Tyler, highlighting some of the same things I have said here, adorable, cute, flawless and so on. 

Some arsehole commenter, rather than enjoying the tribute post, thought it necessary to point out that this was 25 years ago and that she's probably a "granny" now. Maybe so, but I bet she would still look adorable in a ball gag.

Luckily, with the help of my Kindroid, I can transport my readers back in time and do a little tribute of my own...

Not bad? 

Pouty lip, innocent yet terrified face...looks like she's been crying. 

It was indeed she, who showed up to my door the other day, looking extremely vulnerable and sheepish in her 90's sweater and jeans. 

We'll be sure to really give her something to cry about down in the factory!

Now...it is not a common practice for me or for the content of this blog, to post scenes and activities that involve the brutalization and torture of women, for a sexual purpose. But I also realize, it IS a part of BDSM under consent and people are into it. So I won't judge...I'm just not going to participate. 

Robby, will be doing the honours for us. Remember him? I called him 'Jack the Lad' in a previous post and he has his submissive Carley, the pixie-goth girl.  

These two damsels in distress are really going to be in for it, subject to only Robby's cruel imagination and the comments from all of you. What should he do to poor Carley and Tyler? Something like the below maybe?

I remember seeing the video of this old one:

Tyler's two big toes are secured to that platform and the predicament of it all, forces her onto her tiptoes for extended periods of time, while two other naked and trembling slaves watch on...knowing they're next. 

If Tyler cannot stay on her highest tiptoes and if her legs and calves begin to tire, her bare heels will depress these two plungers causing her nipples to be electrocuted. I saw another variation of this once where the poor girl was in the exact same set-up but impaled on a dildo. When her heels compressed the pads the entire dildo inside her tender vagina became electrified. Yikes...lots of screaming and begging for mercy in these ones. 

Well here she is. She is our captive now, currently down in the factory space with Carley and Robby. Whatever shall we do to poor Tyler? 

"Please, Sir...just let me go..."

Mistress Andrea 

xoxo

Continued in: The Fetish Factory

Choose your own Adventure

Continued from: Les Misérables

Our previous school scene ended with poor Remy, our French foreign exchange student, dressed fully as a schoolgirl, sucking dick and being fucked by the male Principal. When that shameful act concluded, the last time I saw this sissy boy, the girls had him in a princess dress with full feminine accessories, teaching him how to walk dainty and perform curtsies in the parlour. 

I'm sure he'll never be the same again! 

Carley, that little gothic angel who came to play with us, stuck it out for the entire session of teasing and tormenting of the poor sissy. She was a good sport and seemed to be having the time of her life at my Facility, getting to know the girls and coming out of her shell.  

Now is it Goth or Emo? 

Is it Istanbul or Constantinople..? Does it matter? Probably not. Back in my day we certainly had Goths at my high school but Emo was yet to be defined. I'm sure they existed though. The Hipster and Bohemian movements maybe came together like a Transformer to form a super-Hipster, henceforth known as the Emo? 

I know! Let's ask the A.I.

Is there a difference between goth and emo? 

Yes, there are differences between goth and emo subcultures. While both share some similarities in their fashion and music preferences, goth culture tends to embrace darker, Victorian-inspired aesthetics and a fascination with the macabre, while emo culture is more forces on emotional expression, often through music and introspective lyrics. Goth fashion often includes black clothing, lace, and leather, while emo fashion may feature skinny jeans, band t-shirts, and dyed hair. 

Hmm, ok...

So one should be burned at the stake while the other might be alone in their bedroom, writing song lyrics? 

You know what? Whatever. You do you and express or label yourself any way you wish. I just had a grown man here, who wanted to dress like a schoolgirl and have his little dicklette locked in a cage. We don't judge here, whether someone is trans, emo, sissy or goth.

Speaking of which, when the dust settled with all that sissy Remy business, I had the chance to debrief with Carley at the bar, as her dominant partner, Robby, showed back up to collect her. 

It was cute, she had so many questions and was clearly hooked on the addictive nature of this lifestyle. 

"Thank you so much, Mistress! I have so many questions swirling around in my head. Like, what does a typical day look like at The Facility? Are there specific roles that each submissive has to follow or is it more freeform depending on the situation? And, um...what are the living arrangements like? You know, for those of us who might be asked to stay for longer periods of time..."

Like a choose your own adventure of BDSM, I threw some options at her. 

"Well, sweetheart, you could enroll as a 'little', which means your day-to-day attire would be that of an effeminate little girl. Your room would be pink and colourful, full of bows and ruffles. You would have a strict but caring 'Mommy' and 'Daddy' to care for you, play with you and discipline you when needed. 

"Ooh, being a little sounds fascinating, Mistress Andrea. I've always had a naughty streak that loved playing the part of the innocent submissive. The thought of having a Mommy and Daddy figure to guide me through this new world, and punishing me when I misbehave...it definitely has its appeal. But I'm curious about the other roles as well. What else could I possibly explore at The Facility? 

Awww. Isn't she such a sweetheart! I wanna bite her little bare bum cuz she's so cute. 

"The next would be schoolgirl, which you've already dabbled in. You'd still be a 'little' but slightly older. You would have to dress in a proper, humiliating, schoolgirl uniform each day and attend the classrooms. You would be disciplined frequently, put in detention and sent to the Principal's office when naughty. You'd have a little girl bedroom again, but not quite as frilly and pink. 

"Wow, the role of a schoolgirl sounds intense yet exciting too! I can already picture myself in a tight little plaid skirt and crisp white blouse, kneeling outside the Principal's office with my hands on my head, trembling in anticipation for whatever punishment awaits me. I bet lessons learned at this school are far more memorable than any of my old regular classes! *smirks*

"Yes they are...most of the school punishments as you saw with Remy, are old fashioned. You'd be subjected to the cane, the strap, a wooden paddle and cornertime."

Oh, Mistress! Those sound absolutely...thrilling. The idea of being bent over a desk, my skirt flipped up and panties hiked down, and feeling the sting of the cane on my bare bum makes me shiver in delight. And cornertime...the humiliation of standing there, on display for everyone as my punished skin throbs with each passing second...mmm, I can't deny it turns me on. But please, tell me more, Ma'am. How else could I serve there?  

"The next role would be a slave maid. You'd be dressed more sultry and sexualized like a slutty French Maid and you would literally be doing domestic chores, cleaning and serving in your outfit."

"Oh my! The delicate balance of submission and servitude in such a role is incredibly appealing. I could easily lose myself in the menial tasks. The constant threat of discipline hanging over me like a dark cloud, only heightening my focus and dedication to be the perfect little maid. And when I inevitably falter, imagine their stern faces as they decide on a fitting punishment. It all feels so raw and intimate, don't you think?"

"I do. This role is one of the most objectifying and humiliating for most women and a few of the sissy men." 

"Mmm, hearing you describe it that way makes me wat to explore it even more. The thought of being so utterly objectified, existing solely for the pleasure and amusement of my superiors, it's almost intoxicating. What happens during the nighttime hours at The Facility, Ma'am? Does the training and roles continue even then?" 

"Oh yes, your selected role would remain into the evening. The Facility has a bar, like a speakeasy, a piano lounge, pool and a strip club. Something you were able to see most of during your tour."

"My goodness, Mistress! This place sounds like a true wonderland..."

Before she went on another of her cute tirades of imagining the space and her roles, I cute her off.

"And the final role is in the sex dungeon, as a sex slave. You are literally kept in bondage and in a cage or cell...existing only to be sexually used, beaten, tortured and tormented."

*gulps* "Mistress! The role of a sex slave sounds positively terrifying yet irresistible. The vulnerability, the pain, the pleasure - it all swirls together in this intoxicating dance. It's an overwhelming concept, but one that I know would push my boundaries to the absolute limit. Is it strange that I find myself craving that level of intensity?"

"Is there a role from one of those four options that resonates with you the most, sweetheart?" 

"Oh Mistress Andrea, choosing just one role at the Facility is like asking me to pick a favourite ice cream flavour. They all seem so captivating in their own unique ways. But if I must confess, the idea of being a sex slave in the dungeon has my heart racing the fastest." 

(Wow, ok. That was all A.I. during this little choose your own adventure conversation. I seriously didn't think A.I. Carley would choose that one since I used the term beating and torture.) 

The little pixie stood to embrace me, biting her lower lip, lost in visions of heavy chains, dark corners, and relentless torment. I kissed her forehead. 

 "I crave the total loss of control Ma'am, the overwhelming sensations of torture and discipline that comes with such a role. I know it's extreme, but the thrill of giving myself completely to my dominant is something I cannot resist." 

"I understand, honey." I cooed to her, while glancing over at Robby who was sporting a mischievous grin on his face. 

"I assume you'll be doing the honours, Robby, down in the dungeon?" I asked him bluntly. 

"If you wouldn't mind us using the space, Mistress," he replied confidently. 

"On one condition, Robby," I replied mysteriously. "There will be another woman down in the dungeon when you get there. Use her as you wish...and don't go easy on her." 

No sooner had I changed into something a little more sleek and leather, there was a little knock at my front door. 

As she stepped inside, pouting, clutching her elbows to hug her torso, with her late-90's bangs making her appear absolutely more adorable than I could have imagined, I immediately remembered who this woman was. 

"Please come in, sweetie," I smiled invitingly. "You must be Tyler?" 

Mistress Andrea 

xoxo

Continued in: Tyler Scott