Maddie the Millennial
[F/ffmm] [spanking] [judicial] [classroom] [humiliation] [corner time]
Continued from: Double Booked
Oh god, my heart was pounding like a freaking drum solo in my chest as I stared at that email from Mistress Andrea. I’d just wrapped up shooting some super spicy stuff for my OnlyFans—me in nothing but a tiny black lace lingerie set, teasing the camera with a riding crop I’d “borrowed” from my last session. Felt so empowered, you know? Like, yeah, I’m a hot mess millennial slinging overpriced jeans at the mall all day, but online? I’m a goddess. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself to get through the shifts.
But then, ping—her email hits my inbox, and it’s like the whole room tilts. I’ve got a session booked with her in a few days, and she’s sent this link. I click it, expecting maybe some new toys or restraints, something that screams “dark and delicious.” Nope. It’s an Amazon wishlist, all pre-purchased and shipping overnight. My eyes scan the items, and I feel this hot flush creep up my neck, a mix of horror and that twisted little thrill that always sneaks in when she pushes my buttons.
First up: this sickeningly adorable baby blue gingham dress with white lace accents and puffy short sleeves. Like, straight out of some vintage doll catalog but in adult sizing. It’s so frilly, so innocent—it makes my stomach twist just looking at the preview pic. Next, these delicate white nylon socks with ruffles around the cuffs. Ruffles! And then, shiny silver Mary Janes in my exact size, the kind little girls wear to tea parties or whatever. But the kicker? Full-bottom white cotton panties with these cutesy cartoon prints in baby blue scattered all over them. Hearts or teddy bears or something equally mortifying. I can already feel the soft fabric against my skin, how it’d bunch up under that dress, making me feel so small, so exposed in the most humiliating way.
The email text is pure ice:
“Bring this outfit to your session, you’ll be wearing it.”
No pleasantries, no negotiation. Just command. My bratty side flares up instantly—I’m 28, for crying out loud, not some toddler playing dress-up. I grab my phone, fingers flying before my brain catches up:
“there’s no frickin way im wearing that!!” Send. Oh shit, what did I just do?
Her response comes back in seconds, cold as a winter wind:
“Excuse me, young lady?!”
The exclamation mark hits me like a slap. I freeze, phone in hand, that submissive fog rolling in fast. I know better. Mistress Andrea doesn’t tolerate backtalk; she’s got this way of turning my defiance into dust with just a look or a word. Memories flood back—last time I sassed her, I ended up over her knee, pants and panties at my ankles, her hand raining down until my ass was cherry red and I was begging through tears. And that wasn’t even the worst.
Another text pings:
“Maybe you need to spend your session holding a bar of soap in your mouth again?”
Ugh, that one. I remember it vividly, like it was yesterday. She’d spanked me raw, the kind of paddling that leaves you squirming for days, every swat building until I was a blubbering mess. Then, corner time: nose to the wall, hands on my head, and that bitter, foamy bar of soap clamped between my teeth. Drool dripping down my chin, mixing with my sobs, the taste invading every breath.
I hated it so much—felt so punished, so reduced. But god, the way it made me submit deeper? That dark kink of mine, craving the force, the non-consent fantasy where I’m whipped into obedience until I break and beg for whatever comes next. It’s twisted, but it’s mine.
Panic surges. No way am I risking that again. My thumbs tremble as I type back:
“I’m sorry Ma’am, thank you for the outfit you got me, I’ll bring it, Ma’am.” Send.
Relief washes over me, mixed with that anticipatory ache low in my belly. What is she planning? Me in that outfit, probably bound and helpless, spanked until I “learn my lesson,” then forced into acts that make me feel taken, claimed against my “will”—even though we both know I crave it. Tomorrow, that package arrives, and I’ll have to face it. For now, I curl up on my bed, hand slipping between my thighs, replaying the threat in my mind. Mistress always wins. And honestly? That’s exactly why I keep coming back.
*********************
Pulling up to the Facility always hits me with this electric buzz, like stepping into a secret world where all my twisted fantasies get to breathe. It’s this nondescript building on the edge of town, all concrete and discretion, but inside? Pure, unfiltered kink. I’ve been coming here for months now, ever since Mistress Andrea first dragged me through those doors—literally, once, with a leash clipped to my collar while I crawled on all fours.
Between my OnlyFans gigs, where I’m basically a walking thirst trap, raking in cash from guys (and girls) who pay to watch me tease and torment myself on camera, the enforced public nudity here doesn’t faze me. If anything, it amps me up. I mean, I’m 28, hot as hell—long wavy brunette hair, curves that could stop traffic, and a face that’s gotten me out of more speeding tickets than I care to admit.
Stripping down in front of strangers? Please, it’s just another Tuesday.
The co-ed locker room is buzzing today, that sterile scent of clean tile and faint sweat hanging in the air, mixed with the low hum of nervous chatter, though no one really speaks to one another, I think that's one of her rules. Everyone here’s here for the same reason: to get their asses handed to them, literally. Spankings, whippings, whatever flavor of discipline floats your boat. I saunter in, my heart doing that familiar flip-flop of excitement and dread, clutching the bag with that godforsaken baby blue outfit Mistress ordered. But first, the rules: full strip-down, no exceptions. Lockers line the walls, benches in the middle, and yeah, it’s co-ed, so dicks and tits everywhere. No biggie for me—I’ve got subscribers who’d kill for a glimpse of what these randos get for free.
Today it was this salt-and-pepper daddy type, probably pushing 50, with that distinguished gray at the temples and a build that screams “weekend golfer.” He’s fumbling with his belt, and when his pants drop—bam, there it is: a shiny metal cock cage locked tight around his dick, the kind with a little padlock dangling like a taunt. Poor guy’s cheeks are flushed pink as he tries to act casual, but I can’t help it—a giggle bubbles up from my chest, light and bratty. He glances my way, and I flash him a smirk, wondering if he’s ever stumbled onto my OnlyFans. Has he jerked off to my vids? The ones where I’m bound spread-eagle, fake-pleading while I crop my thighs until they’re striped red, forcing myself to “submit” to whatever comes next? The thought sends a shiver down my spine, that dark thrill of being objectified, even here. God, I love it.
But then my eyes drift, and whoa—there’s this elegant woman across the room, tanned skin glowing like she’s just stepped off a yacht in the Mediterranean. Portuguese or Italian, maybe? Late forties, with jet-black hair worn straight, down, and she’s peeling out of this fancy red dress that probably costs more than my rent. Snooty vibe for sure, like she comes from old money, the kind who sips martinis at galas but secretly craves being bent over and broken. Under the dress? Expensive full pantyhose, sheer and silky, hugging her legs like a second skin. She’s got that poised grace, but I bet she’s here to get it shattered, just like me.
Next to her, though, is the real showstopper—a long blonde ponytail swaying as this young woman, late twenties I’d guess, opens a locker. She’s pretty in that fresh-faced way, blue eyes and a smattering of freckles, but damn, when she steps out of that plain navy tennis skirt? Her lower half is pure power: legs like a cyclist’s, thick and toned, quads rippling with every shift, and an ass that’s round, firm, the kind built from squats and sprints. Speed skater, maybe? Or a rower? Whatever it is, she’s got that athletic build that makes me pause, mesmerized. I’m used to being the hottest in the room—guys at the mall where I sling jeans all day trip over themselves staring—but today? With these two here, stripping down just like me, knowing they’ll probably hear my cries echoing down the hall when Mistress has me over her knee? It hits different. A little vulnerability creeps in, that delicious edge where my confidence wavers, making the submission feel realer, rawer.
Stepping out of that locker room into the reception area feels like walking into a sauna—warm, almost too warm, the heat cranked up just enough to make your bare skin prickle without turning you into a sweaty mess. Everyone’s naked here, after all, no clothes to hide behind, just vulnerable flesh waiting for whatever comes next. I clutch my gift bag a little tighter, the one stuffed with that humiliating baby blue getup, and scan the room for a spot. There they are—the three from the lockers: the salt-and-pepper daddy type, looking all stoic with his caged cock bobbing awkwardly as he sits; the elegant, tanned woman with her snooty poise, legs crossed like she’s at a board meeting instead of a spanking den; and the blonde bombshell with that athlete’s ass, her ponytail swinging as she perches on the edge of her seat. I slide into a chair near the back, right behind them, my bare thighs sticking to the vinyl a bit. God, the exposure hits me again—nipples hardening in the air, that familiar ache building between my legs. I’m used to eyes on me from my OnlyFans shoots, but here? It’s raw, real, no filters or edits. Part of me loves it, that bratty side whispering how hot I look compared to everyone else, but the sub in me squirms, knowing judgment’s coming.
“Stay,” she commands, her voice like velvet-wrapped steel, and he whimpers a “Yes, Mommy,” (aww, how cute) his broad shoulders shaking. I bite my lip, imagining what led to that—maybe he begged too much, or came without permission. The sight sends my butterflies into a frenzy, my pussy throbbing with that needy pulse. Fuck, I want her to break me like that, whip me until I’m sobbing and “forced” to spread my legs, pretending I have no choice even though it’s all I crave.
Mistress looks stunning today, absolute perfection in this sleek pencil skirt that hugs her hips like a promise, sheer hosiery shimmering on her legs, and those killer heels clicking with every step. Topped off with a severe turtleneck that screams authority, and oh— that quintessential gold key dangling around her neck on a delicate chain. Symbolic as hell, I think, a visual brag about all the dicks she’s got under lock and key, denied and desperate. My eyes drop instinctively as she turns, that submissive haze kicking in hard. She’s got the gift bag spotted beside me, but she doesn’t come for me yet. Instead, she zeros in on the blonde first.
The blonde nods, her cheeks flushing pink. “Oui,” she murmurs, and oh my god—French! That accent drips like honey, thick and adorable, making her even cuter. Cyclist’s legs, perky tits, and now this? I’m mesmerized, sneaking glances at her toned ass as she shifts.
Mistress nods approvingly. “Stand and head down the hall to session room 3. We’ll get you settled in properly.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Summer replies, her voice laced with that accent, rising obediently. She pads off naked, ponytail bouncing, her powerful legs carrying her with a grace that screams athlete. I wonder what she’s in for—maybe a strapping over those jacked thighs until she’s begging in French. Hot!
Next up, the elegant woman. Mistress turns to her, all business. “Mrs. Goth… Isabella, is it? This is your first time here also. Please proceed down the hall to session room 6.”
The woman—tanned, jet-black hair still somehow looking polished even without clothes—stands slowly, but not before correcting her. “It’s just Bella, please.” Polite, yeah, but bold as fuck. Correcting your disciplinarian in front of a room full of naked strangers? I smirk inwardly, thinking, Oh honey, your bare bum is gonna pay dearly for that one. Mistress’s eyes narrow just a fraction, that telltale sign she’s filing it away for later. Bella lowers her head, shamed now, her naked form slinking down the hallway, curves swaying under the fluorescent lights.
Mistress clicks behind her—wait, no, she’s escorting them? Or maybe just seeing them off. Either way, as she passes my row, she catches my eye and gives me this wicked little wink, like she knows exactly what’s churning in my bratty brain. My heart stutters, that thrill spiking hard. The daddy guy’s still there, waiting his turn, and I wonder—will she call me next? Drag me to a room solo, dress me up like a doll and spank me until I’m a tear-streaked mess? Or maybe make an example of me right here, bent over in front of him, ass up while she paddles me raw, “forcing” me to submit with everyone watching? The fear of the unknown is electric, pulsing through me like a live wire. God, I hate how much I love it.
Bring it, Mistress. I’m ready to break.
Love,
Maddie xoxo
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