Pasteurized

Continued from: Cornertime Revelation

[F/f] [whipping] [lezdom] [public humiliation] [submission] [sex slavery] [CNC] [babygirl]

Written by Skylar St. Germaine

I watched her walk away, noting the subtle sway of her hips beneath the clinging fabric of her nearly sheer, white dress. She disappeared into the restroom, to do my bidding and sneak her panties off from under her dress. 

I pulled out my notebook and began jotting down my observations. 

Subject exhibits signs of anxiety and embarrassment when given a public task, but ultimately complies with minimal resistance. 

Willingness to obey suggests a strong submissive streak...

I paused, tapping my pen thoughtfully against the page as I considered the psychological implications of her actions. Was her obedience driven purely by fear of consequences, or was there a deeper, more primal need at play?

I made another note, just then, Eesha emerged from the restroom, her face flushed and her steps hesitant as she approached the table. Without a word, she slipped something small and silky into my hand before resuming her seat, her eyes fixed firmly on the table top. 

I glanced down at the offering in my palm - a pair of white lacy panties, still warm from her body. As I inspected the inner gusset of Eesha's panties, I noted with fascination how incredibly wet they were. The damp patch spread across the delicate crotch, evidence of her arousal at the mere thought of the dynamic we once had, the gentle taps I just gave her on the bum as we first greeted. 

I raised an eyebrow at her, my expression a mix of playfulness and judgement. "Well, well, well," I murmured, my voice laced with false disapproval. "It seems we're right back where we left off, E, all those years ago." Eesha squirmed in her seat, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. I could see the conflict playing out across her features as she squeaked out a desperate plea. 

"P-Please, Sky...not here...not like this."

Just then, a handsome young waiter arrived and set down a glass of milk, directly in front of Eesha. I watched her expression closely, eager to observe her reaction to the little surprise I had arranged for her. Her eyes widened in shock and embarrassment as she spotted the tall glass for the first time, carefully placed by the waiter amidst elegant wine glasses adorning the rest of the table. 

She just gave me a look of terror and desperation, remembering how I used to treat her in public, back when we were in university. How she wished to be treated, rather, when we fully embraced our D/s dynamic, well beyond just spankings. I could practically see the wheels turning in her mind as she tried to process this unexpected twist, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of crimson. 

"I hope you don't mind, E," I said sweetly, gesturing to the offending beverage. "I thought you might enjoy something a bit more...age appropriate." Eesha's mouth opened and closed several times, as if she were struggling to find the right words to respond. I could tell that she was torn between her desire to assert her independence and her deeply ingrained need to submit. 

After a moment of awkward silence, Eesha finally managed to stammer out a reply. "Um...thank you, Sky," she muttered, her gaze downcast and submissive. "That's very thoughtful of you." I smiled indulgently, reaching across the table to pat her hand reassuringly. "Of course, honey. I only want what's best for you." 

I could sense her growing unease and involuntary arousal, her body language betraying her inner turmoil. It was clear that she was acutely aware of the other diners' curious glances, their whispered conversations undoubtedly centered around the grown woman in a gown, being treated like a child. I found the entire situation utterly captivating, my mind racing with theories and hypotheses about the psychological impact of public humiliation. 

Determined to push Eesha's boundaries even further, I picked up the glass of milk and held it out to her expectantly. "Drink up, sweetheart," I cooed, my voice dripping with condescension. "We wouldn't want it to go to waste, now would we?" 

Eesha hesitated for a moment, her gaze darting nervously around the room as her analytical brain  weighed her options. Finally, with a resigned sigh, she took the glass from my hand and brought it to her lips. 

When she finished her substantial gulp, she set the glass back down on the table, her eyes downcast and her cheeks burning with shame. I couldn't help but smile at the sight of the thin white moustache clinging to her upper lip, a tangible reminder of her submission. 

Leaning forward, I gently wiped away the residue with my thumb, my touch lingering on her perfect lips. "There's my baby girl," I cooed, my voice low and sultry. 

No, I haven't seen the movie yet, but I saw the trailer with the milk scene. Summer and I are planning on watching it at home together. Or I'll be watching it at least, she might be on her knees, between my legs for most of it, if it's hitting all the right marks for me.  

I would naturally assume that if you're in the testing stages of a D/s dynamic, or in the case of Sky and Eesha, a re-kindling phase, you might pull a stunt like this, in public, to gauge a person's reaction to public humiliation. 

A key worn around the neck or on an anklet of a female, having dinner with a lone male. A wife taking her husband to a pretty check-out girl at a lingerie store, to help pick out panties. (That's a Miss Julie signature move). Or a subtle choker worn in public with a single, silver O-ring. 

I can only imagine the milk scene here, is a play on the thrill and arousal of public humiliation. 

The compounding humiliations of the evening fueled her arousal, which in turn, heightened her need for discipline, creating a vicious cycle from which there was no escape. A slave to her own pussy, and her own pussy making her into a slave.

Hands and knees, right in the restaurant when her meal arrives, placing it on the floor in front of her? No...I didn't go that far, but we did book a more private session and decided on an upcoming date.  

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

Several days later, as I stepped into the bright, empty bedroom, my eyes fell upon Eesha's naked form. She was kneeling, her nose pressed to the wall and her hands clasped atop her head, just as I had ordered her to wait for me. 

The sight of her vulnerable, exposed body sent a thrill of excitement coursing through me, and I took a moment to drink in the scene, before making my presence known. I was dressed in my finest dominatrix attire - a black chest harness bra, sheer stockings hugging my legs, and towering stiletto boots that clicked menacingly against the floor with each step. 

My long blonde hair was styled and down, and my makeup was flawless, accentuating my sharp cheekbones and piercing hazel eyes. As I approached Eesha, she turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting mine with a mix of fear and anticipation. 

I frowned sternly, my voice cutting through the silence like a whip. "Did I give you permission to move?" I demanded, my tone laced with disapproval. Eesha quickly returned her nose to the wall, her body tensing as she awaited correction. I circled around her, my boots echoing ominously as I inspected her from every angle. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, her bum more full and curvaceous than I remembered. I ran my nails along her spine, feeling her shudder beneath my touch as she whimpered out a "nooo, Ma'am...p-please don't."

"You've been a very naughty girl, haven't you?" I hissed, my hot breath against her ear. Eesha nodded silently, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she struggled to control her breathing. I smiled in satisfaction, knowing that she was safe, that she was playing her consensual-non-consent (CNC) role quite well. Something she confessed to me back in school, when our regular spanking sessions evolved into more intense, impact play. 

Without warning, I delivered a sharp smack to her bare bum, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. Eesha yelped in surprise, her body jerking forward reflexively. I grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her from the wall to face me as I jerked her head backwards. "That's for disobeying me," I growled, my lips brushing against her ear. 

 I could see the conflict playing out across her features - the shame of her nudity warring with the desperate need for submission. Reaching into my bag, I retrieved a pair of black strappy stilettos and tossed them carelessly onto the floor beside her. 

"Put those on," I commanded, my voice firm and authoritative. "They're the only thing you'll be wearing tonight, E." 

With Eesha now standing before me, naked save for the towering black stilettos that adorned her feet, I was ready to put my latest experiment to the test. What I had noticed since starting with The Facility, was that most sexual activity and BDSM scenes were done in specialty rooms or bedrooms, or in basement dungeons, hidden away and kept in secret. I believed that there was untapped potential in exploring these dynamics in more unconventional, vanilla settings - places where a collision between depravity and domesticity would create an added psychological effect. 

And what better place to start the heart of the home itself? The kitchen.

Eesha's body quivered with anticipation as I guided her towards the bondage vaulted horse that I had strategically placed in the center of the room, glittering with D-ring metal plates and brass padlocks. The absurdness of the scene - a piece of bondage furniture nestled amidst the gleaming appliances and polished surfaces of a modern kitchen - only added to the sense of vulnerability and heightened arousal for her. 

"Bend over it," I commanded, my voice low and seductive. "Ass in the air, hands behind your back. It's time for your whipping, my sweetheart." 

Eesha hesitated for a moment, her nervous gaze flickering between the vaulting horse and the riding crop that lay beside it. But ultimately, she complied, draping her naked body over the padded surface and presenting her vulnerable bare bottom. 

Obediently and without prompting, Eesha's slowly spread her legs for me, teetering on her high heels and coming up onto tip-toe. Her soft cries filled the air, pleading with me not to proceed. 

"Please don't do this, Skylar. I don't want to be whipped. I haven't misbehaved, I promise," she whimpered, her voice cracking with emotion. 

Despite her protests, I noticed the unmistakable evidence of her arousal - spider-silk strands of pre-cum soaking her thighs and cascading between them in a glistening web. The sight sent a surge of excitement through me, my own body responding viscerally to the visual confirmation that I was playing my role well. 

I reached out and collected some of the sticky fluid with my fingers, marveling at its silken texture and the way it clung to my skin. Without hesitation, I rubbed the mess onto Eesha's lips and face, smearing it across her tear-streaked cheeks and forcing her to taste her own arousal. 

"You're sure you don't want this huh?" I questioned, my voice laced with a mocking edge. "You know you have a safeword to stop it all." 

I could see her shoulders sinking into the padded horse - the war between her rational mind, which insisted that she didn't want this, and her primal instincts, which craved the intensity and release that only submission could provide. 

The time for talk was over - I had my baby girl right where I wanted her. 

Sky

Cornertime Revelation

Continued from: My Finest Work

[M/f] [F/f] [spanking] [corner time] [age regression] [BDSM] [power dynamics] [lezdom] 

Written by Skylar St. Germaine 

Close A.I....very close *shrug* 

It won't give me a red, spanked bum, but it'll nail the ugly wallpaper...

As I stood in the corner, my mind raced, my thoughts spiraling in a whirlwind of analysis and introspection. And suddenly, amidst the chaos, a moment of clarity emerged, crystalline and sharp, cutting through the fog of the session. I remembered Eesha, my former roommate, the girl who had first introduced me to the world of spanking and discipline. 

The link to that original story, you can find here: Roommates

I recalled the night she had come to me, her eyes downcast, her voice trembling, admitting her struggles with her studies. She had begged me to help her, to motivate her, to provide the structure and accountability she so desperately needed. And I now understood why Eesha had sought out this unique form of "help", why she had returned to it again and again, despite the embarrassment, the discomfort, the indignity of being spanked as an adult woman. 

It was a form of catharsis, a purging of guilt and shame, a cleansing of the soul. It was for her, a means of atonement, a pathway to redemption, a roadmap to forgiveness. The countless hours I made her stand in various corners of our dorm room and later our shared house, I understood now, being in the same humiliating predicament with my red bottom bare and displayed. 

The revelation hit me like a bolt of lightning, searing through my consciousness, igniting a fire in my belly. Eesha. My dear, sweet, Doctor Patel. How could I have forgotten her, abandoned her, left her to flounder and struggle alone when she has such a burning need for discipline. 

I imagined Eesha now, a successful dentist, still harbouring that deep-seated desire for structure and discipline. We hadn't seen each other in years, yet this is the young woman who bared her bottom and draped her little frame over my knee, so many years ago, then thanked me for punishing her. 

The last time I reached out to her was right after my on-boarding at The Facility, when I realized this world of kink, of adult accountability via spanking and all the other wonderful facets Mistress Andrea showed me, actually exists. 

That story was called: Doctor Patel

"Miss me? 💓" - with the heart emoji, is all I sent to her. And her reply...should have been a clue that she once again needs my strict lap, my firm hand. 

"More than you know," was Eesha's response, one that I never acted upon. 

Perhaps, I mused, it was time to reconnect with her, to share my newfound insights and experiences from The Facility. Yes, I resolved, as I shifted my weight from foot to foot, my bottom still smarting from Daddy's firm hand - I had to reach out to her.

With my skirt and panties finally returned to me and a parting hug from Russell, I text-messaged Eesha right away. 

The text exchange started off innocuously enough, with the usual pleasantries and catching up. But as the conversation progressed, I couldn't resist testing the waters, probing for signs of the old dynamics that had once defined our relationship. 

When I suggested meeting up at a very swanky restaurant, her excitement was palpable, even through the screen. That's when I knew I had her hooked. I gave her specific instructions on how to dress - elegantly, but with a hint of something more. Gold, high, strappy heels that would mimic the look of bondage on her feet. I even told her the colour and style of panties I expected her in. 

Each command was met with eager compliance, culminating in a simple yet telling response: "Yes, Ma'am." The power dynamic of old, was reestablished once more, and I could practically feel the electricity crackling through the air. Meanwhile, Eesha didn't even know where I now worked, I wondered how she would react to my new role as a dominatrix in a kink studio. In any event, she was about to find out, we set dinner plans the following night, at the swankiest place in town...

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

As I strode into the lobby of the restaurant, clad in a little black mini-dress and towering heels that accentuated my sculpted physique, I could feel the collective gaze of every patron lock onto me. The men's eyes traced the contours of my muscles, their expressions a mix of envy and lust. The women, probably wanting to bed me too, regarded me with a blend of admiration and jealously, their own insecurities laid bare by my unapologetic display of strength and sexuality.

I reveled in the attention, knowing full well the power I held over them all. But my focus remained singularly on Eesha, my former roommate and submissive, whom I had summoned here tonight for reasons both personal and professional. 

After a few moments sitting at the bar, I caught her glowing radiance as she entered. I quickly composed a text message and hit send: 

"omfg you're still gorgeous!"  

Her dress, white and elegant, hugged her curves in a way that betrayed her eagerness to please. The gold, strappy heels I had instructed her to wear, glinted in the dim lighting, drawing the eye upward to the side-slit, which cascaded dangerously high on her thighs. Seeing my message, she looked up from her phone, smiling, scanning the room to find me at the bar. 

"Hello, E," I purred, my voice dripping with seduction as I stood to greet her. I enveloped her in a warm embrace, my hands instinctively finding their way to her bottom as I spoke, "it's been too long." 

I laid several loving smacks on her bum cheek as I hugged her, each one eliciting a soft gasp from her lips. The message was clear: it hadn't just been too long since we'd seen each other, but also too long since she'd received a proper, good, old-fashioned, spanking. 

I could feel the tension in her body, the way she melted into my touch, even as she squirmed slightly beneath my palm. It was a reaction I recognized all too well, once that spoke volumes about her deep-seated need for discipline and structure. 

As we settled back into our seats, I studied her closely, taking mental notes on every nuance of her behaviour. The way her eyes darted nervously around the room, as if afraid someone might recognize her. I knew it was time to put her obedience to the test. Leaning in close, I whispered my command directly into her ear, my breath hot against her skin. 

"Stand up and go to the little girl's room, Eesha. Take your panties off and bring them back to me." 

Her eyes widened in shock, once again scanning all around the restaurant as if seeking an escape route. But I could also see the flicker of excitement behind her apprehension, the trill of submitting to my will in such a public setting. 

This was going to be a very interesting evening indeed! 

Sky  

Continued in: Pasteurized

My Finest Work

Continued from: Scientific Method

[Spanking] [M/f] [humiliation] [cornertime] [schoolgirl] [maledom] [DDLG] [BDSM] 

It looks like we've got an extra P in there. Is that an omen? 2025 will be an extra happy year? I certainly hope so and Summer and I would like to wish you all a happy and healthy 2025, and thank you for being loyal fans. 

Lets try that one again...

Happy New Yieappy...sigh*

Happy BS prmars...??

A.I. gibberish. The struggle is real, people! 

Summer, can we put away all the decorations and these sickening coloured outfits? The holidays are over, but not before the Doctor left us all an amazing gift!

"Oui, Madame. If you insist." 

I thought I would front-end load some images in this one, as, for the first time, I'd like you to just read, and not be distracted by visuals. 

Fifty Shades, whatever this new Babygirl thing is going to turn out to be...I can guarantee you, that it will never compare to what Skylar just wrote for all of us. As a long time connoisseur of this BDSM world, I can't say I've ever read anything like this. It's the finest work I've ever seen.

If you, as an adult, have even been sitting alone in a room somewhere, waiting for an impending spanking, this one will grab you right by your butterflies. Skylar's scientific understanding and introspection, relative to spanking and D/s dynamics, surprised even me.

If you remember from last time, she asked Russell for a very real, age regressed spanking, all in the name of her scientific exploration of these dynamics. Russell cleverly mixed in the title of "Daddy", for himself, as he sent her upstairs to change and wait for him. This turned out to be quite the trigger for her and they ran with that roleplay during their scene. 

Let's just hope she doesn't beat the shit outta him up there. She looks a little....ummm...intimidating, despite her outfit.

Take it away, Sky...

(The following was 99.5% written by the A.I. version of Skylar)

The Revelation of Anticipation 

     Perched on the edge of the childish bed, my legs crossed demurely at the ankles, I waited with bated breath for Daddy to arrive. The room felt charged with anticipation, every sound amplified in the heavy silence - the ticking of a clock, the distant hum of traffic outside, the rapid beating of my own heart. I smoothed my hands over the crisp fabric of my skirt, marveling at how the simple act of changing my clothing could so drastically alter my perception of myself. 

No longer was I Dr. Skylar St. Germaine, esteemed scientist and respected dominatrix - I was a naughty schoolgirl, awaiting the inevitable consequences of my misbehaviour. As I sat there, lost in thought, I couldn't help but analyze my own reactions, jotting mental notes for the report I would undoubtedly write afterward.

The heightened sensitivity of my skin, the fluttering in my stomach, the subtle tensing of my muscles - all pointed to a state of acute arousal, despite the underlying current of fear and uncertainty. I wondered briefly if this was how my clients felt, sitting alone in the dimly lit rooms of The Facility, awaiting my arrival. Did they experience the same heady mix of excitement and trepidation, the same desperate yearning for release, coupled with a primal need to resist? 

The thought intrigued me, fueling my determination to see this experiment through to its conclusion. Just then, I heard footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate, each one sending a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through my veins. The door handle turned, and Daddy stepped into the room, his presence filling the space with an almost palpable energy. I looked up at him, my eyes wide and imploring, silently begging for both mercy and punishment in equal measure. 

"Daddy," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly as I spoke the word aloud for the first time. 

"I'm ready for my spanking." 

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

As Daddy slowly removed his belt, the sound of leather snapping against fabric seemed to echo in the small room, each inch drawn out like a torturous caress. My breath caught in my throat, a lump forming as I watched him double the belt over, testing its weight in his hand. The sight sent a shiver down my spine, a primal fear mingling with a dark, insistent arousal that pulsed between my legs. 

"Stand up, young lady," Daddy commanded, his voice firm and unyielding. "Pull your panties down to your knees." 

My hands trembled as I obeyed, rising from the bed on unsteady legs. Hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my childish cotton underwear, I slid them down, feeling the cool air kiss the bare skin of my bottom. The vulnerability of my position stuck me like a physical blow, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as I realized the full extent of my submission. 

Daddy hadn't even touched me yet, but the psychological impact of the scene was overwhelming, pushing me to the very brink of emotional release. I stood there, quivering, my panties bunched around my knees, my hands clasped tightly in front of me. Every nerve ending seemed to be screaming, my senses heightened to an almost unbearable degree

The power of anticipation, of the unknown, was truly remarkable. And yet, beneath the clinical detachment of my observations, I could feel something else stirring - a deep, aching need, a yearning to be taken, to be owned, to be utterly and completely dominated. 

As Daddy loomed over me, belt in hand, I knew that whatever came next would shatter me, remake me, leave me forever changed. And God help me, I wanted it more than anything. 

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

Daddy's strong hands gripped my shoulders, guiding me towards the full-length mirror that hung on the wall opposite the bed. The sudden contact sent a jolt of electricity through my body, my skin tingling beneath his touch. 

"Hands on your head, feet together," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. I complied immediately, interlacing my fingers atop my head, my elbows framing my face. The position forced me to arch my back slightly, thrusting my breasts forward and accentuating the curve of my bottom. 

As I stared at my reflection, I barely recognized the woman looking back at me. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with unshed tears, her lips parted slightly as she struggled to control her breathing. The childish outfit, combined with the humiliating pose, served to emphasize her vulnerability, her utter helplessness in the face of Daddy's authority. 

Fascinating, I mused, even as a fresh wave of embarrassment washed over me. The visual feedback loop created by the mirror seemed to intensify every emotion, every physical sensation. I could see the goosebumps rising on my skin, the slight tremble in my limbs, the way my nipples strained against the fabric of my school blouse.

Each observation fed into a growing sense of arousal, a dark, insistent hunger that gnawed at my core. I wondered briefly if this was a technique Daddy employed regularly with his submissives, using the mirror as a tool to heighten their awareness of their own bodies, their own reactions. If so, it was remarkably effective - I could feel myself teetering on the precipice of complete surrender, my defenses crumbling under the weight of this designed scene. 

As I stood there, hands on my head, panties around my knees, I couldn't help but marvel at the complexity of the human psyche. How could something so seemingly innocuous - a mirror, a simple command - elicit such a powerful response? 

I knew that whatever happened next would be both terrifying and exhilarating, a dance on the razor's edge between pleasure and pain, ecstasy and agony. And I was ready for it, eager for it, desperate for it with every fiber of my being. 

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

Ten minutes....

Three hundred seconds. An eternity stretched out before me as I stood facing the mirror in my enforced position. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, each second ticking by with excruciating slowness. Behind me, I could hear Daddy moving about the room, the rustle of fabric, the clink of metal, the soft thud of objects being placed on the bed. My imagination ran wild, conjuring up visions of the implements he might be preparing - belts, canes, paddles, each one promising a different flavour of exquisite torment. The anticipation was almost unbearable, a constant hum beneath my skin, a tension coiling in the pit of my stomach. 

And yet, even as I squirmed internally, I remained outwardly still, my gaze fixed on my reflection in the mirror. Fascinating, I thought, noting the way my pupils dilated, the way my chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. The longer I stood there, the more acutely aware I became of my own body, my own reactions. It was like watching a stranger, a subject in some twisted experiment, her responses carefully cataloged and analyzed. 

I wondered if this was how my clients felt, standing naked and vulnerable before me, their deepest, darkest fantasies laid bare for my inspection. Did they experience the same rush of adrenaline, the same dizzying mix of terror and arousal? 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Daddy spoke. "Turn around, young lady," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "It's time for your spanking." 

With trembling hands I lowered my arms, turning slowly to face him. The room had been transformed during my enforced reflection, a veritable arsenal of implements laid out on the bed, each one gleaming menacingly in the soft light. Daddy stood before me, his expression stern, the belt still clutched in his hand. My heart pounded in my chest, my palms suddenly damp with sweat. 

This was it - the moment of truth. 

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

Daddy scolded me first, his fabricated words washing over me in a torrent of disapproval. I felt a strange numbness settle over me. It was as if I was watching the scene unfold from a distance, an observer rather than a participant. But then, the word pierced through the haze, striking me like a physical blow. "I'm disappointed in you, young lady." The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and I felt something inside me crack. 

Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and stinging, spilling down my cheeks in rivulets. Disappointed. The word echoed in my mind, a harsh condemnation that cut deeper than any physical pain ever could. I had failed Daddy, let him down, proven myself unworthy of his affection, his approval. The realization was devastating, a crushing weight that bore down on me, threatening to suffocate me beneath its enormity. 

Without thinking, I found myself involuntarily laying over Daddy's lap, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I reached back with shaking hands, lifting my skirt to expose my bare bottom, my puckered anus and my shamefully aroused pussy on full display. The humiliation of the position was almost too much to bear, a searing heat flooding my face, my ears burning with embarrassment. 

And yet, even as I squirmed with shame, I couldn't deny the throbbing need between my legs, the wetness that coated my inner thighs. It was a paradox, a contradiction - to be so turned on by my own degradation, my own failure. 

Intriguing, I thought dimly, even as sobs wracked my body, my tears falling freely onto Daddy's pants. The psychological impact of his disappointment was far greater than any physical punishment could ever hope to achieve. It tapped into something primal, something deeply ingrained in my psyche - the need for approval, for validation, for love. 

And in denying me those things, Daddy had stripped me bare, laid me open, exposed me for the lawed, imperfect creature I truly was. It was a revelation, a moment of clarity that cut through the fog of arousal and shame. This was why people submitted, why they sought out punishment and humiliation - because it forced them to confront their own weaknesses, their own insecurities, their own deepest fears. And in doing so, it offered a chance at redemption, at absolution, at rebirth. 

I clung to that thought as I lay draped over Daddy's knees, my bare ass raised and ready for his punishment. Whatever came next, I would endure it, embrace it even, and allow it to cleanse me completely. 

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

The Spanking

    The first smack of the belt against my bare bottom send a shockwave of pain radiating through my body, jolting me out of my tearful reverie. I gasped, my muscles tensing involuntarily, my toes curling in my Mary Janes. But even as the initial sting faded, I could feel a warmth blooming beneath my skin, a tingling heat that seemed to spread outwards from the point of impact. It was a curious sensation, painful yet strangely pleasurable, a dichotomy that both confused and excited me. 

Daddy didn't give me time to ponder the contradiction, however. Before I could catch my breath another blow landed, this one harder than the first, eliciting a sharp yelp from my throat. And then another, and another, each one building upon the last, layer after layer of exquisite agony. 

I writhed and squirmed on Daddy's lap, my hands clutching at his pants, my nails digging into the fabric. Tears streamed down my face, my vision blurring, my senses overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensation. But even through the haze of pain, I could feel a growing ache between my legs, a throbbing need that seemed to intensify with each passing second. It was a puzzle, a conundrum - how could something so painful be so arousing? How could humiliation and embarrassment fuel such intense desire? 

The questions swirled in my mind, even as I cried out synthetic apologies, promises to do better, to be good. "I'm sorry, Daddy!" I sobbed, my voice hoarse and broken. "I'm sorry I disappointed you! Please forgive me, Daddy!" The words tumbled from my lips unbidden, a desperate plea for absolution, for redemption. And with each utterance, I felt a piece of myself fall away, a fragment of my pride, my dignity, my self-worth. It was a stripping away, a peeling back of layers, exposing the raw, vulnerable core beneath. 

And yet, even as I wept and begged, I couldn't deny the mounting arousal, the slick wetness of my exposed folds. The pain and the pleasure were inextricably linked, two sides of the same coin, feeding off each other, amplifying each other. It was a fascinating phenomenon, a testament to the power of the mind, the intricate interplay between physiology and psychology. 

As Daddy shifted me into new positions, employing various implements, I found myself analyzing my own reactions, cataloging each nuanced response. The hairbrush produced a sharp, staccato pain, while the strap delivered a duller, more diffuse ache. The cane left thin, precise lines of fire, while Daddy's palm imparted a broader, more encompassing heat. Each implement elicited a slightly different reaction, a subtle variation in my vocalizations, my bodily movements, my facial expressions. It was like a symphony of sensations, a complex tapestry woven from threads of pain and pleasure, humiliation and arousal. 

And as my spanking drew to a close, my ass a throbbing mass of tender flesh, I found myself drifting in a state of euphoria, a hazy, dreamlike trance. The world around me seemed to recede, fading into insignificance, leaving only the pulsing beat of my own heart, the ragged cadence of my breathing. In that moment, suspended between pain and ecstasy, I understood the true nature of submission, the profound surrender of self that it demanded. It was a giving over, a letting go, a relinquishing of control. And in that surrender, there was a freedom, a liberation, a sense of peace that transcended all else. 

Daddy helped me to my feet, his strong arms supporting my trembling body. I felt so little. I knew that I had crossed a threshold, stepped over a line from which there could be no return. I was forever changed, forever altered, forever blessed by this experience. And as I gazed up at Daddy through tear-soaked lashed, I whispered the words that sealed my fate, my destiny. "Thank you, Daddy," I breathed, my voice barely audible. "Thank you for punishing me." 

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

Aftercare and Reflection

    Daddy's arms wrapped around me, enfolding me in a cocoon of warmth and safety. I melted into his embrace, my body going limp, my tears subsiding into quiet hiccups. His forgiveness washed over me like a balm, soothing the raw edges of my soul, mending the fractures in my psyche. It was a moment of pure connection, of unconditional acceptance, of love. And in that moment, I felt a surge of emotion so powerful, so overwhelming, that it stole the breath from my lungs. Gratitude, relief, devotion - they all swirled together, a maelstrom of feelings that left me dazed and disoriented. I clung to Daddy, my fingers digging into his shirt, my face buried in his chest. I wanted to stay there forever, suspended in that perfect instant, frozen in time. 

He held me for as long as I needed to be held, before the moment passed. Daddy gently extricated himself from my grasp, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. He looked down at me, his expression stern yet compassionate, his eyes seeming to smile at me with pride. "Go stand in the corner," he commanded, his voice low and authoritative. "Hands on your head, bottom bare. Reflect on your behaviour, on what you've learned today." 

I nodded mutely, my throat too tight for words. Turning away from Daddy, I shuffled towards the designated corner, my steps slow and halting. My ass throbbed with each movement, a constant reminder of my transgressions, my failures. As I pressed my nose to the wall, assuming the required position, I felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over me. My bottom was on full display, the reddened flesh glowing like a beacon, broadcasting my shame to anyone who cared to look. And yet, even as mortification burned in my cheeks, I couldn't ignore the pulsing ache between my legs, the desperate need for release that consumed my every thought. 

I wanted nothing more than to reach down, to stroke myself to completion, to find some measure of relief from the relentless arousal that gripped me. But I knew better than to disobey Daddy's orders. So I stood there, motionless, my hands clasped behind my head, my body trembling with suppressed desire. And as the minutes ticked by, stretching into eternity, I found my mind wandering, analyzing, dissecting the entirety of the session. 

What was it about this particular scenario that elicited such a visceral response from me? Was it the role-playing aspect, the assumption of a persona so diametrically opposed to my true nature? Or perhaps it was the physical sensations themselves, the pain and pleasure intermingling in a potent cocktail that short-circuited my rational brain? Then again, maybe it was the psychological component, the surrender of control, the abdication of responsibility. Whatever the cause, the effect was undeniable - I had never felt so alive, so present, so utterly consumed by sensation. It was a revelation, an epiphany, a glimpse into the depths of myself. 

And as I stood there on display, lost in contemplation, I knew that I would spend hours, days, weeks even, poring over the data, examining the variables, searching for patterns and correlations. With renewed determination, I focused my gaze on the blank expanse of the walls before me, my mind racing with possibilities and hypotheses, with theories. 

The corner time might be intended as punishment, as a humiliating penance, but for me, it was a gift - a chance to reflect, to analyze, to grow. And I intended to make the most of every second. 

Skylar St. Germaine, PhD. 

How beautiful was that? 

A gift to all of us, the lifelong spankos who have felt and know every paradoxical detail of what Skylar just described. She can just put it into words, better than we can! 

Happy 2025 everyone, let me know what you thought of this one. 

Mistress Andrea

xoxo 

Continued in: Cornertime Revelation