The Judicial Wing

[F/fm] [judicial spanking] [public humiliation] [jail] [punishment] [bondage] 

Continued from: Meanwhile, back at the Facility

Oh, darlings, if you thought my Facility was already a playground of exquisite perversions, buckle up—or should I say, bend over? I’ve been keeping a little secret, one that’s been hammering away in the background amid the symphony of saws and sweat from my ever-so-handsome contractors. Yes, that’s right: I’ve unveiled a judicial wing, a deliciously stern addition to my empire where justice isn’t blind—it’s got a wicked wink and a paddle at the ready.

It all sparked from those late-night dives into the underbelly of online forums and the hushed pleas in my client emails, even the famous Lone Star annual spanking party has a judicial offering. You see, there are spanko purists out there—devoted souls who aren’t content with a simple over-the-knee session. No, they crave a deeper immersion that sinks into their bones: a courtroom drama where they’re hauled before a judge (yours truly) sentenced for sins real or role-played ones. 

Picture it: that stack of speeding tickets from those infernal red-light cameras, or a fully fictional felony like “caught masturbating by your roommate.” They beg to be stripped bare-bottomed—or utterly naked—under the gaze of a gallery of witnesses, their cheeks flushing hotter than the impending smacks as I deliver my verdict, followed by the sentence.

Then comes the gut-twisting wait in a locked jail cell, shackled and stewing in anticipation, their traitorous arousal building like a storm they can’t escape. It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s ridiculously arousing for them in the most terrifying of ways. (It also gives me time for all the outfit changes I have to do. Sheesh! Just to ensure the client's experience is truly immersive).

My judicial wing is still a work in progress, mind you—those burly builders are sweating over expansions like a sentencing chamber with viewing alcoves for extra voyeuristic flair and a high-tech holding area with automated restraints that adjust to every squirm. But oh, the crown jewel is already operational: my automated spanking machine! 

Now, don’t go picturing some medieval torture device designed to break spirits or bruise bodies—no, no, this beauty is far more insidious, crafted for the slow burn of humiliation and exposure rather than outright brutality. It’s a sleek, modern marvel, all metallic and quiet whirs, engineered by a discreet kink-tech wizard who understood my vision perfectly: punishment that lingers in the mind and on the skin without crossing into savagery.

Let me paint the picture for you, darlings, because the devil—or in this case, the Domme—is in the details. The client is positioned with exquisite care, bound in a way that’s equal parts secure and scandalous. 

Imagine being led into the clinically lit chamber, your “crimes” fresh from the courtroom docket, and instructed to strip down to nothing but your regrets. The machine’s frame is adjustable, tilting you forward at just the right angle—bottom up, legs together to protect the genitalia, padded bondage belts that lock with a soft click, ensuring every inch of your vulnerable rear is on full display. Your wrists are cuffed to the sides or overhead, pulling your torso down and arching your back in a pose that’s positively pornographic, leaving you exposed not just to the machine’s mechanical mercy but to any witnesses I’ve invited to observe through the one-way glass. It’s that exposure, that forced vulnerability, that amps up the humiliation factor—knowing eyes are on you, judging, enjoying, while you’re helpless to hide even the slightest twitch or telltale glisten of arousal.

And the spanking itself? Oh, it’s a masterpiece of measured torment. No wild swings or heavy thuds here; the automated arms deliver precise, rhythmic swats with paddles or straps that I’ve programmed to your “sentence.” Think long, lengthy sessions—thirty minutes, an hour even, if you've been particularly naughty—where each impact lands with consistent, unyielding gentleness that’s deceptive in its persistence. It builds layer by deliberate layer, starting with a warm-up that tingles more than stings, escalating to firmer taps that spread a uniform glow across your cheeks. 

No bruising, no welting—just an even, rosy red that blooms like a sunset, perfectly symmetrical and impossible to ignore. You’ll feel the deep layers for days, that persistent warmth reminding you of your “trial” every time you sit, every time you catch a glimpse in the mirror, a badge of your submission. 

One client tested it last week; emerged red-cheeked and rave-reviewed, babbling about how it felt like the hand of fate itself, relentless yet teasing, leaving him marked in the most deliciously non-permanent way. He couldn’t stop squirming in his seat for a full three days, a constant, humming reminder that justice had been served—slowly, sensually, and oh-so-humiliatingly.

So, if you’re feeling guilty—or just gloriously naughty—book your day in court. I’ll be waiting on the bench, gavel in one hand, gleam in my eye, ready to dispense the kind of verdict that leaves you sore, satisfied, and scheming for your next “crime.” Who’s first? 

(And as you can see in the image above, we do offer more "extreme" judicial packages....and...The machine does have a severe setting if you dare) 

Mistress Andrea 

xoxo

Disclaimer: All text prompts going into A.I. systems to create some of the content of this blog along with requests for A.I. images appearing in this blog, clearly state that everyone involved is an ADULT, above the legal age of consent.