Locked and Longing

[F/f/m [judicial spanking] [public humiliation] [jail] [punishment] [bondage] 

Continued from: Stripped and Shamed

Oh man, I totally blanked on the whole sentencing thing back in that mock courtroom. Like, seriously, all I heard was “spanking,” and my brain just glitched-out, everything else fading into this buzzy fog of nerves and that embarrassing throb between my legs. Two hours of incarceration? Yeah, that part flew right over my head. But now, as Officer Andrea—Mistress Andrea, whatever—leads me through the Facility, bare naked and rattling in these stupid shackles, it hits me like a slap I haven’t even gotten yet.

My wrists and ankles are chained, forcing me into this awkward shuffle, my bare skin prickling in the cool air, every step reminding me how exposed I am. No dress, no panties, nothing—just me, my guilt, and this walk of shame to the cell block. God, I feel so small, so guilty about that Porsche mess, the way I let Daddy down. I deserve this, I keep telling myself, but the fear’s building, twisting in my gut like it’s alive.

The booking process was this whole theatrical thing, butterflies going wild in my stomach the entire time. Wallet, phone, keys gone—poof, my lifeline to the outside world. Then the stripping, the scolding over my wet panties… ugh, that humiliation still burns in my cheeks. And all that prep, the inspections, the paperwork—it must’ve chewed up at least 25-30 minutes, right? 

Felt like forever, every second dragging out the suspense, making my heart race faster. But nope, the clock’s still ticking on those two hours. Now she’s outfitting me in this prisoner orange smock—terribly embarrassing, like one of those hospital gowns that ties open at the back, leaving my ass basically hanging out if I move wrong. And the “court issued” panties? Oh god, they’re these great big, gross white cotton things, probably from Kirkland or Walmart, all baggy and unsexy, scratching against my skin. I’m used to Agent Provocateur, lace that makes me feel hot and wanted, but these? They’re deliberate, I know it—humiliating me, stripping away my princess vibe, turning me into just another guilty girl. A little modesty restored, yeah right. Back in the shackles, wrists and ankles clicking coldly, and now my feet are bare, the cold floor sending chills up my legs, my sweaty toes from earlier finally free but feeling even more vulnerable without those Loubies.

She marches me into this small cell—real jail bars, clanging metal that echoes like a bad omen. Inside, just a stainless steel bench bolted to the wall, right beside a toilet that’s out in the open, no privacy at all. I sit there, the metal cold against my barely-covered ass, as she shuts the door with a heavy thud and locks it. Click. Alone. Just me and my thoughts, the fear of that spanking machine getting more and more real, clawing at me. 

What’s it gonna feel like? That automated thing, whacking away for almost half an hour? My bottom’s gonna be so red, sore for days, a constant reminder of my lesson. I need it, though—the guilt from that night, the speeding, Daddy’s missed work—it’s heavy, and this is the only way to lift it. But sitting here, chained, in this ugly getup? The suspense is killing me, every minute stretching out, my mind racing with what-ifs.

Maybe ten minutes crawl by—feels like an hour—when I hear it: someone else being booked in by Officer Andrea. Her voice, all stern and in control, echoing down the hall. “Strip naked,” she says, just like she did to me. But it’s a guy this time, his voice mumbling responses, sounding nervous as hell. 

I perk up, straining to listen, my heart picking up again. What’s his story? Another guilty soul like me? The sounds of shuffling, clothes hitting the floor, that same theatrical booking dragging on. Another ten minutes tick away, and finally, I hear her heel clicks approaching—sharp, confident, like she’s owning every step. There’s a naked, shackled man in tow, maybe a little younger than my dad, all hunched and trying to cover himself awkwardly with his chained hands.

And then I see it, through the bars of my cell—a gleaming stainless steel cage locked around his penis. It’s right there, encasing him completely, his dick looking all limp and shriveled inside, pathetic and trapped, with this brass padlock dangling from the top like a taunt. I’ve heard about chastity cages in my late-night online kink searches, read stories that got me all hot and bothered, but seeing one in real life? Whoa. It’s intense, this total dominant control she has over him—over a grown man, emasculated and sexually denied, probably hasn’t gotten off in who knows how long. He’s crying, actual tears as she guides him into a cell a few down from mine, his sobs echoing softly. Locked away, just like me, but with that extra layer of denial twisting the knife.

In that moment, staring through the bars, something shifts in me. I don’t just want to have sex with Mistress Andrea anymore—god, no. I want to BE her! Wielding that power, making men cry and beg, controlling them like that. It’s hot, empowering, this rush hitting me even as I’m sitting here in my humiliating smock, waiting for my own punishment. 

Officer Andrea comes back and moves me to this tiny stand-up cell - it's like a freaking coffin with bars, padlocked door slamming shut behind me. It's so narrow I can't sit, can't kneel, can't even turn around; I'm stuck standing there, bare feet on the cold floor, facing straight ahead at the spanking machine for the first time. 

Oh god, there it is - the mechanical arm all sleek and menacing, with this big wooden paddle attached, just waiting to swing, and all those buckling restraints dangling like they're hungry for my naked, killer little bod. 

Shit just got so real, my heart's pounding, that guilt from the Porsche stunt crashing over me again, making me want this lesson more than ever, but terrified too - the anticipation is killing me, knowing in like 15 minutes it'll start whacking away for that full 28 and half sentence. And that dude in the cell down the hall, the one in the dick cage, all locked up and denied? Not only did he get a good glimpse of me and most of my ass on the way by his cell, he's gonna get to hear every single smack echoing through the block, my cries mixing with the rhythm of wood on flesh, no escaping the humiliation.

Alexis Gianna DiPaulo

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