Double Booked
[F/ffmm] [spanking] [judicial] [classroom] [humiliation] [corner time]
Continued from: Orange: The New Black - pt.2
Looking back, those initial months after unlocking the Facility’s doors felt like watching a seed burst into full bloom overnight, petals unfurling in vibrant, unexpected ways. What I’d envisioned as a modest haven for those craving real discipline had transformed into a bustling sanctuary, clients arriving in waves from the most surprising corners of life. I even had to start booking client sessions together, of course, only for those who were ok with that, obviously it was a hard limit for some.
The raw, almost judicial impact of forcing men and women to strip naked together in that co-ed locker room, shedding their vanilla skins like snakes molting before slithering into my den of discipline. Picture it: they arrive, hearts pounding, palms sweaty, buzzing through that secure door into the vestibule, only to face the choice—change room or reception—but oh, the change room is where the real stripping begins. I designed it that way, you see, a stark space with rows of cold metal lockers, benches that chill bare asses, and no dividers, no privacy—just fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting unforgiving shadows on bodies of all shapes, all fumbling with belts and buttons under each other’s averted but inevitably sneaking gazes.
The humiliation starts there, blunt and immediate—pants dropping, bras unhooking, cocks springing free or pussies bared, everything from limp dicks to slick folds on display as they stuff clothes, phones, keys, purses into those auto-locking lockers, the click sealing their fate like a judge’s gavel. For the men, I personally mash their little penises into metal chastity cages in my side office first—cold titanium rings around the base, tubes encasing the shaft, locks snapping shut with that resounding click that echoes in their souls, leaving them soft, denied, and utterly focused on the punishment ahead, no erections to distract from the sting or the shame.
They sit there, stripped of dignity, waiting for their name to be called—listening to someone else get spanked, the cracks of hands or belts on bare flesh echoing like verdicts, the sobs and “I’m sorry, Ma’am!” pleas a preview of their own fate, butterflies churning in their stomachs, faces burning with that nervous twist of embarrassment as they imagine their turn. And when a session ends, the punished one is led back by the upper arm—sobbing, naked, ass glowing red with welts—to serve thirty minutes of corner time on that “front stage” behind the desk, nose to wall, hands on head or behind back, bum bare and on display for everyone to see, the stripes and bruises a public exhibit, tears streaming as the waiting clients steal glances, the humiliation a blunt, judicial sentence that deepens the punishment, making it feel bigger, more real, like they’re part of a court where shame is the law and I’m the judge.
Yet, for all the growth, one puzzle piece remained missing: the ideal receptionist.
I’d approached Bailey—that insatiable 22-year-old waitress I’d dressed as a Hooters temptress, her pert ass quivering under my crop as she edged toward ecstasy. She’d been a delight, but when I offered her the position, she declined with that breathy charm.
“Mistress, being here every day… I think it would water down the magic of my sessions. But I’ll be back soon for another ‘appointment,’ I promise.”
Her eyes had twinkled with that unquenchable spark, and I’d let her slip away with a kiss, knowing she’d return craving more.
My gaze settled on the 42-year-old blonde in the front row—Mrs. Richardson, a mother of three, married to a steadfast partner, a civil engineer whose days were spent designing structures that withstood storms, yet here she was, crumbling under her own tempests of guilt: the sharp retorts to her children after grueling site visits, the neglected date nights with her husband, the professional shortcuts that haunted her like cracks in a foundation. Her hair was ridiculously styled into pigtails that bobbed with her soft sobs, knee socks hugging her calves, the plaid school jumper short enough to tease her thighs, Mary Janes gleaming on her feet—she looked the part of the regressed penitent, ready for the classroom’s sting to rebuild her.
I was planning a classroom immersion session for her today—putting her directly over my knee in a school setting, making her pull down her own panties like the naughty girl she craved to be, then working through several implements on her bare bum: the hairbrush for those deep, bruising thuds; the strap for lashing lines of fire; the paddle for broad, resounding smacks that would echo through the open door for any passersby to hear.
A little corner time in the classroom I think, and after, back out to the lobby for her corner time in front of the rest of the clients waiting their turns—panties at her knees, the back of her skirt held up to display her red, welted bum to everyone, tears streaming as she stood there exposed, the public humiliation a final layer to her beautifully horrific release.
I closed the distance between she and I and I watched the dread consume her facial expression, knowing she was up next.
“Mrs. Richardson,” I said cheerily, my voice slicing through the tension like a warm blade, filling the room with that blend of invitation and inevitability, “it’s time for your spanking. Follow me, please.”
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