Noose of Cuteness

[bdsm] [spanking] [ddlg] [age play] [humiliation] [abdl]

Continued from: Maddie the Millennial

My heart’s hammering like a bass drop at a rave as I sit in that waiting room, butt-naked and buzzing with that mix of dread and dirty excitement that always hits before a session. The air’s thick with warmth, making my skin tingle, and I can’t stop fidgeting—crossing and uncrossing my legs, feeling the slickness already building between my thighs just from the anticipation. That salt-and-pepper daddy guy’s still there, his eyes flicking my way now and then, probably dying inside his cage at the sight of me. 

Me, the 28-year-old e-girl queen with my OnlyFans popping off, where I tease losers with close-ups of my perfect body, edging them until they tip like idiots. I’m hot shit—long brunette waves, curves that make mall customers stare while I sling overpriced denim all day—and yeah, I know it. But here? Naked, waiting to be summoned like a naughty pet? It strips me down, makes me feel small, and god, that vulnerability just amps up the kink.

Then Mistress Andrea struts back in, all poise and power in her pencil skirt and heels, that gold key necklace bouncing like a taunt. Her eyes lock on me, and I swear my pussy clenches just from her gaze. “Maddie,” she purrs, voice like silk over a blade. “Time for your appointment, little one. Grab your bag and follow me.”

I hop up, bag in hand, padding bare naked down the hall on my gorgeous little feet—perfectly tanned from those fake-bake sessions I sneak on my lunch breaks, toes painted crisp white. Oh, everyone knows what that means, right?: white toenails on cute, sun-kissed feet? It screams “I’ve got really good pussy.” Shaved bald, tight as a virgin’s promise, pleasantly scented like fresh linen with a hint of my favorite vanilla body wash, and yeah, I tastes like vanilla cupcake—sweet, tangy, addictive. Guys (and girls) on my OF beg for vids where I spread wide and play, but they don’t get the full show. That’s reserved for sessions like this, where I’m “forced” to submit, whipped until I “beg” for tongue or cock or whatever Mistress deems my punishment. The thought has me dripping already as I trail her, ass swaying for the receptionist’s amusement.

She leads me to this upscale change room, not the basic locker BS—a vanity setup with a huge lighted mirror, plush stool, and makeup sprawled out like it’s a glam session instead of prep for humiliation. The door clicks shut, sealing us in, and Mistress crosses her arms, smirking. 

“Well, you’re already naked—saves time. Now, dress up in your new outfit, every piece. The panties, socks, shoes, that sweet little dress. And while you’re at it, sit at the vanity and do your makeup like a proper little girl. Dramatic but innocent—big doe eyes, rosy cheeks, glossy pink lips. No grown-up slut vibes today; I want you looking adorable and regressive.”

I groan inwardly, but my body’s betraying me—nipples pebbled, that ache low in my belly turning into a full throb. Deep humiliation washes over me as I dig into the bag, pulling out those full-bottom white cotton panties first. God, they’re mortifying—soft, bunchy fabric with baby blue cartoon prints, teddy bears and hearts like they’re designed for a toddler. I step into them, feeling the cotton hug my shaved-smooth pussy and ass, the crotch already damp from my arousal. Me, the entitled millennial who struts the mall in thigh-highs and crop tops, turning heads and ignoring thirsty dudes, now sliding into these? It’s degrading, making me feel so small and exposed, like my hot-girl status is being erased. But fuck, it’s soaking me— that dark kink firing on all cylinders, the fantasy of being bound, spanked raw until I “submit” to being taken, no choice but to spread and take it. I don’t want this cutesy bullshit… or do I? The shame makes my clit pulse against the fabric, cupcake icing, sweet and ready.

Next, the white nylon socks with those frilly ruffles—prissy as hell, rolling them up my ankles, the texture whispering against my tanned skin. Then the shiny silver Mary Janes, buckling them tight over my white-painted toes, making every step feel dainty and restricted. I glance down—bottom half all innocent and regressive, my perfect feet looking even cuter, screaming that secret about my pussy. Heat floods my face, but my thighs are slick now, rubbing together as I imagine Mistress noticing, maybe “punishing” me for getting wet without permission.

The dress seals the deal—that baby blue gingham nightmare with white lace and puffy sleeves, slipping it over my head like a noose of cuteness. It hugs my tits and hips just enough to tease my curves, hem flirting mid-thigh, but the vibe? Pure little-girl fantasy, ready for a spanking over the knee. I plop onto the stool, staring at my reflection, and start the makeup: fake lashes for those wide, dramatic innocent eyes, shimmer to make them pop like I’m pleading; high rosy blush for that just-caught-naughty flush; glossy pink lips that scream kissable and forbidden. I tie my hair into a flirty pony with the ribbons from the bag, ribbons bouncing as I move. The mirror shows it all—sexy e-girl transformed into an adorable brat, humiliated to my core. 

Tears sting from the embarrassment, but god, my pussy’s weeping, tight and bald under those panties, scented sweet and tasting like candy. The humiliation’s fuel, making me wetter than any OF shoot, because it taps that wild side: I crave being whipped into submission, “forced” to acts that feel non-consensual but are exactly what I need.

I stand, smoothing the dress, heart racing. I look ridiculous, precious—nothing like the confident retail chick who brats her way through life. But the wetness? It’s betrayal and bliss, prepping me for whatever “force” comes next. 

Time to report back. Mistress will love breaking this little girl.

Love,

Maddie

Continued in: Perfect Little Doll