Meanwhile, back at The Facility...

[spanking] [humiliation] [strapping] [sissy] [bondage] [foot worship] [age regression]

Continued from: Ed and Lorraine: Loose Tongue

Oh, darlings, how the months have flown by since I first turned the key in the Facility’s door, that discreet little haven nestled in the industrial park where the clatter of machinery muffles the sweeter sounds of slaps, sobs, and submission. What started as my personal playground—a space born from my own delicious days as a submissive, feeling the bite of belts and the thud of hairbrushes before I flipped the script—has blossomed into a veritable empire of exquisite torment. The steady stream of income is a delight, my bank account swelling like a well-spanked bottom, each deposit a testament to the cornucopia of clients who’ve crossed my threshold: from the high-strung CEOs begging for a hairbrush blistering to purge their boardroom stress, to the shy housewives craving nursery regressions where diapers crinkle under my maternal paddle. Men, women, those who defy tidy labels—all ages, all walks, united in their hunger for that raw, real release, the beautifully horrific dance of pain and purification that leaves them marked in body and spirit, often returning with that addictive gleam in their eyes.

And the gifts! How they’ve showered me with tokens of their gratitude—fine leather straps monogrammed with my initials, antique wooden spoons polished to a menacing sheen, even custom chastity keys engraved with “Property of Ma’am.” It’s almost comical, the way they’ve turned my little operation into a boutique of bespoke kink, but I accept them with polished elegance, a witty quip on my lips: “Sweetheart, this belt will sound divine across your cheeks next time.” 

Yet, amid the opulence, what truly keeps the place spotless and running smoothly, is the parade of sissy males who’ve emerged from the woodwork, desperate for strictly enforced chastity—those cold titanium cages mashing their little penises into submission, locking away erections and ideas, leaving them emasculated and forcibly feminized under my command. Dressed in frilly maid outfits with padlocked heels and ruffled aprons. 

They’re assigned domestic chores and duties—scrubbing floors on all fours, polishing my footwear, dusting high shelves in teetering stilettos—their caged cocks leaking pre-cum into their frilly panties as they toil, the humiliation a constant throb that keeps them coming back for more “training.” It’s witty, really—turning their fantasies into my housekeeping staff, the Facility gleaming like a jewel while they whimper in denial.

But enough reminiscing; why don't I just show you what's been happening around here these past few months, yes? Let’s peek into a few of the highlights that have kept me so delightfully occupied lately…

Woodshed Whuppin'
One of my favorite additions to the Facility was that authentic, old-fashioned woodshed I had installed out back—a rustic little gem with weathered planks and a straw floor that crunches underfoot like nature’s own confetti, complete with a sturdy sawhorse in the middle, perfect for draping a trembling body over like a sacrificial offering. 

It started as a whim, inspired by those clients who craved that down-home country strapping—the kind a stern father might give his adult son for slacking on chores, or have his grown daughter cut a fresh willow switch from the tree outside, bringing it trembling to the shed for a good ole-time switchin’ that leaves stripes like lessons etched in fire. Non-sexual, raw, and rural— that’s the appeal, stripping away the polish for something primal.

I dress the part, of course—jeans tucked into work boots, a plaid lumber shirt rolled up to my elbows, and that big wide belt slung low on my hips, the leather worn soft from use but ready to whistle through the air like a no-nonsense enforcer. It makes me appear more “Daddy” like, towering and commanding without a hint of seduction, my raven hair tied back in a practical pony as I march the poor soul down the garden pathway. 

And oh, for the truly misbehaved, the delicious terror when they’re bare naked for that walk—the crunch of gravel under their bare feet, the fear of neighbors peeking through fences or hearing the distant cries when the woodshed door is left deliberately open, the strapping’s cracks echoing like thunderclaps across the yard. 

I’ve seen grown men whimper like boys, women clutch their arms over their breasts as the wind teases their skin, all while I lead them by the upper arm, my belt already unbuckled in anticipation. Inside, over the sawhorse—ass up, legs spread—the belt or switch dances across their bare bum, stripes rising red and raw, their sobs mingling with the straw’s rustle, the open door ensuring every plea carries on the breeze. It’s blunt, it’s brutal, and it’s beautifully cathartic—they leave marked and mended, often booking again for that “country air.” 

The Sole Obsession 

And then there were the foot people—oh, my, what an unexpected torrent they turned out to be, wildly popular and abundant from the start, as if every secret sole-lover in town had been waiting for my doors to open. 

It’s the ultimate union of senses, you see: the visual feast of a perfectly arched foot or painted toenail catching the light; the textural delight of silken skin under fingertips or tongue, smooth as satin after a fresh pedicure; the intoxicating scent of well-worn hose, that heady mix of leather and musk after a long day; and the taste—salty, sweet, an essence of my body lotion that leaves them begging for another lick. 

Men and women alike flocked to kneel at my feet, sucking on my beautiful toes with fervent devotion, tongues swirling each digit like it was nectar; others lapping my silken soles from heel to toe, burying their faces in the curve as I teased their caged cocks or dripping pussies with a casual flex.

The buyers were endless—men eager to purchase my well-worn high heels and hosiery, sniffing the insoles like addicts inhaling their fix, faces buried in the nylon as if it held the secrets to their submission. 

And the masochists—women craving punishment on the soles of their feet, either by the whip’s sharp kiss cracking across tender arches until welts rose like red ribbons, their screams a mix of agony and ecstasy as they flexed and curled... 

...or through positional predicament bondage, something "challenging" under the bare heels, the strain a slow-burning torment that left them begging for mercy while I traced my riding crop along the trembling legs and calves of the submissive.

I wasn’t quite ready for the huge influx at first—these foot fetish folks overwhelmed my initial offerings, clamoring for more dedicated sessions that blended worship with pain. I’ll have to work on bolstering the services—perhaps some special area dedicated to all things female feet, with thrones for toe-sucking servitude and stocks for sole whippings. 

For now, it’s a delightful challenge, but in the not so distant future, a solution would present itself in the most unexpected way—I just didn’t know it yet.

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

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