Orange: The New Black

[lezdom] [F/f spanking] [bondage] [CNC] [corner time] [humiliation]

Continued from: The First Client

A month or two had slipped by since Heather’s inaugural session, that tentative first brushstroke on what would become my burgeoning canvas at the Facility. What had started as a solitary venture—born from my own years on the receiving end of BDSM—had exploded into a thriving sanctuary, clients flocking to my reception area from every shadowed corner of desire. (I'm still hunting for the perfect receptionist).

The diversity astonished me even now: the high-powered CEO who was stripped bare for weekly hairbrush spankings to atone for boardroom betrayals; the shy accountant in her 40s craving nursery regressions, diapers and pacifiers reducing her to tearful bliss; the young executive couple exploring sissification, him in locked chastity and frilly dresses while she wielded the paddle under my guidance. Men, women, those who defied labels—all ages from 18 to their salt and pepper years—seeking the raw catharsis of real punishment, the beautifully horrific release of baring not just their bodies but their burdens. Business boomed, my calendar filled with sessions that left me invigorated, the echoes of sobs and smacks a symphony I conducted with growing finesse, my role as the sole dominant a crown I wore with pride.

But in that quiet interlude, as I lounged on the velvet chaise in my playroom, my thoughts drifted while Bailey, a return client, simmered in the waiting room. Ah, Bailey—my super hot, sexy, adorable 22-year-old waitress, a little handful with her insatiable fire, claiming addiction to porn and masturbating as her “sin,” begging for punishment laced with whippings, bondage, humiliation, and sexual servitude. I’d dressed her in the iconic Hooters outfit to play on her actual job and objectify her—those satin orange shorts clinging like a second skin, transforming her pert ass into a sculpted work of art that begged for my palm or crop, the fabric riding up just enough to tease the curve of her cheeks. 

When we began the session, she stood in timeout as most of my clients did at the start—nose pressed to the wall, hands on top of her head, feet together, her body a perfect picture of playful submission, the shorts’ satin gleaming under the soft lights, her breaths shallow and quick, betraying the storm of arousal and nerves within, her brown waves cascading freely, face flushed with the embarrassment of her pose.

Straight as an arrow, she claimed, but I knew better. So is spaghetti until it gets wet, sweetheart. Her insatiable nature would bend under my touch, engaging in lesbian acts to further humiliate her, and oh, she wouldn’t mind; if anything, it would fuel that fire, leaving her begging for more in her breathy, adorable whimpers. The room waited—bondage bench in the center, whips and straps on the wall like art, a large mirror to reflect her degradation—and as I rose, my heels clicking with purpose, I knew this session would be a playful dance of humiliations, her straight façade cracking under my whip and whims.

Bailey had been trembling in her corner long enough, her adorable little frame a perfect picture of playful anticipation. I rose from my chaise with a deliberate click, the leather pants creaking softly as I approached her, my presence filling the playroom like a gathering storm. She didn’t turn—good girl—but I could see the quiver in her legs, the way her fingers twitched into her hair, her brown waves cascading down like a veil of temptation.

I finally clicked up to her, close enough for my breath to stir the hairs on her neck, my voice a low, sultry murmur laced with amusement. “Are you ready for your spanking?” I asked, my hand trailing lightly up her thigh, fingers brushing the edge of her tank.

She played into her role beautifully, a soft sob escaping her lips as she pretended to cry, her voice breathy and broken—“Y-yes, Mistress…”—tears glistening on her cheeks, though I knew they were as much from arousal as feigned remorse, her insatiable fire already kindling.

I took her upper arm in a firm grip, leading her to the center of the room where the straight-backed chair waited like an old friend. Sitting with my knees together, I created that stable lap over my leather pants, patting my thigh invitingly. “Over you go, Bailey—let’s warm that cute little ass of yours.” She draped herself across, her body a warm weight against me, her orange shorts taut over her cheeks, her pantyhose-sheathed legs kicking slightly as I pinned her with one hand on her lower back.

The traditional over-the-knee hand spanking began as a warm-up—my open palm descending in firm, rhythmic smacks over her orange shorts, alternating cheeks with steady precision, the satin fabric muffling the impacts into soft thuds that built a gradual heat beneath, her yelps breathy and playful at first—“Ow, Ma’am!”—her ass jiggling delightfully under each strike. “Masturbating again, have you,?” I scolded, my voice laced with teasing sternness, the smacks quickening as her cries deepened, the rhythm building that playful, sexual undercurrent that made her squirm with more than just pain.

Once her cheeks glowed faintly through the satin, I hiked the shorts down to her knees in one swift tug, exposing her hosed bum—the suntan pantyhose shimmering over her skin like a teasing veil, the slouch socks adding to the adorable disarray. The hand spanking resumed directly on the hose, the smacks now sharper, resounding with a crisp crack against the nylon, the material offering thin protection that amplified the sting, her cries deepening—“Ahh, please, Mistress, no!”—as pink bloomed beneath the sheer layer, the warmth spreading like a blush across her pert cheeks. Satisfied with the warm-up, I helped her up and back to the corner, her face flushed and tear-streaked, but that insatiable spark still gleaming in her eyes. 

Without a word, I approached her from behind and handcuffed her wrists behind her back—cold metal clicking shut with a finality that made her gasp, the bonds pulling her shoulders back, thrusting her perky breasts forward against the tank. I led her by the upper arm to the metal bondage cage on the floor—a sleek, barred enclosure just big enough for her to kneel inside, the door swinging open like an invitation to captivity. “In you go, my little porn-addicted slut,” I purred, guiding her down to her knees, the cage’s bars cold against her skin as she curled inside.

I padlocked the door with a resounding click, the key dangling teasingly from my finger before pocketing it, leaving her locked and objectified, her adorable face pressed close to the bars, tears mingling with that breathy anticipation. “Stay put, Bailey—we’re just getting started.” 

The metal bars of the cage framed her like a pretty picture of denial, her wrists cuffed behind her back ensuring she couldn’t even brush a finger against her slick, aching pussy, no matter how desperately it throbbed for relief.

I let the moment linger, my heels clicking softly as I circled her once, the sound a deliberate tease that made her flinch. Then, in full view of her pleading eyes, I reached for the zipper of my leather pants, drawing it down with slow, intentional grace, the material whispering against my skin as I peeled them away, stepping out one leg at a time. 

My panties followed—a black lace thong that I hooked my thumbs into, sliding them down my thighs with a shimmy, the fabric clinging briefly to my own wetness before dropping to the floor. I bent gracefully to retrieve my heels, slipping them back on, the towering black stilettos elevating me once more, fully exposed from the waist down, my shaved pussy glistening with the arousal that came from wielding such power over her.

She whimpered softly in her cage, her eyes darting between my legs, unable to look away, her straight little façade cracking under the weight of forced voyeurism. 

I sprawled out onto the bondage bench in the middle of the room, positioning myself in full view—legs spread wide, one heel hooked over the edge for leverage, my back arched slightly as I leaned against the padded headrest, one hand trailing lazily down my toned abdomen to part my slick folds. The other cupped my breast through the satin top, pinching a nipple as I began to touch myself slowly, fingers circling my clit with deliberate languor, the wet sounds filling the space like a taunt.

“Is this the sort of porn you watch, Bailey?” 

I asked, my voice a husky murmur laced with scolding amusement, my fingers dipping deeper into my warmth, stroking in slow, teasing pulls that made my hips roll subtly. 

“Filthy little videos of women pleasuring themselves, while you rub that insatiable pussy of yours raw? Naughty girl—look at you, locked away like a desperate pet, whimpering while I enjoy what you can’t have. Shall I let you out for a taste?”

I drew my pussy-soaked fingers slowly into my mouth, savoring my beautiful arousal.  

Her cries grew louder, muffled sobs as she strained against the cuffs, her wrists twisting futilely behind her back, unable to reach between her legs where her own arousal no doubt soaked those orange shorts. I laughed softly, the sound throaty as pleasure built, my strokes quickening just enough to make my breath hitch, fingers plunging in and out with slick rhythm. 

“Such a dirty, depraved little thing—addicted to touching yourself, and now you can’t even scratch that itch. Watch me cum, Bailey… watch what a real woman does when she’s in control.”

The climax hit me heavily, a wave crashing through my core as I arched against the bench, fingers buried deep, my free hand clutching the padding as moans spilled from my red lips—low and unrestrained, my body shuddering with release, juices coating my thighs in a glistening sheen. Bailey’s whimpers turned to desperate mewls, her cage rattling slightly as she shifted, tears streaming down her adorable face, her straight claims crumbling under the forced spectacle.

As I caught my breath, sprawled languidly on the bench, I fixed her with a coy gaze, my voice dropping to a sultry whisper as I began to put my pants and panties back on. “Now, my little handful… what dirty, depraved lesbian acts would you do, just to be let out of that cage? Tell me—would you kiss my feet? Lick my thighs clean? Bury that straight little tongue in my pussy and make me cum again? Speak up, Bailey… convince me.”

“Yes, Ma’am… I’d kiss your boots, lick them clean if you wanted…”—her adorable face flushing deeper, the confession pulled from her like a thread unraveling her straight-laced pretense, her nipples hardening visibly against the tank, her thighs pressing together futilely against the need building between them.

I laughed softly, a low, throaty sound that filled the room, circling her cage like a predator savoring the hunt. “Oh, but that’s just the start, isn’t it? Would you bury that straight little tongue between my thighs, lap at my pussy like the porn-addicted slut you are? Tell me—convince me how desperately you’d eat me out, make me cum on your face.” She whimpered louder, her body trembling against the bars, the handcuffs clinking as she strained, her eyes locked on mine with a mix of shame and hunger. 

“I… I’d do it, Ma’am,” she confessed, her voice breaking, “I’d crawl to you, spread your legs, and lick you so good… tongue deep inside, sucking your clit until you came all over me… please, I’m so wet, just let me out…” 

The words tumbled out in desperate rushes, her cheeks burning scarlet, tears mingling with the drool she wiped on her shoulder, her insatiable fire turning the lesbian act into a craving she couldn’t deny, her straight claims bending under the weight of her need.

Ah, what a handful—she’d earn her way out eventually, but if she knew what I had in store for her, perhaps she'd prefer to stay in the cage. 

To be continued...