Warm Reception

[spanking] [F/f] [domestic discipline] [corner time] 

Continued from: Drive to Destiny

The marble floor of the reception area gleamed under the clinical overhead lights, its cool surface echoing each tentative click of my patent nude heels as I stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind me with a quiet, final thud that seemed to seal off the outside world. My hands trembled slightly as I clutched my purse, the leather strap digging into my palm like an anchor against the storm of nerves churning in my stomach. 

The room was smaller than I'd imagined, almost intimate yet still sterile and clinical, everything smelled new, of recent paint, of construction dust - a few rows of plain wooden chairs arranged in neat lines facing an empty reception desk at the head, crafted of light grey wood and clean lines that spoke of quiet authority, with a single door lurking behind it like a gateway to secrets. 

No one was there, thank God! Just an eerie stillness broken by the faint hum of an appliance somewhere beneath the desk, and the distant tick of a clock I couldn't see. My heart pounded in my throat, a relentless drum that made my mouth feel even drier, every swallow a struggle against the lump of fear lodged there. 

I approached the desk softly, my heels' echoes amplifying the loneliness of the space, my nice sweater and p-coat suddenly feeling too warm against my skin, clinging to the curve of my breasts as sweat beaded at the small of my back. There, propped against a small bell that looked untouched, was a note - handwritten on cream stationary, the kind that whispered old-world sophistication. My fingers shook as I picked it up, the paper crisp under my touch. Who writes letters these days? I actually found it to be quite adorable despite how terrified I was. I was starting to like this woman from a different era, this woman I had yet to meet. 

The words blurred slightly through the haze of my anxiety, but the offer of water was a lifeline - I knelt awkwardly in my heels as I reached under the desk, the fridge's cool blast a brief relief as I grabbed a bottle, twisting the cap with unsteady hands and gulping it down, the cold liquid soothing my parched throat but doing nothing for the butterflies raging in my tummy, a frantic swarm that left me lightheaded, my pulse echoing in my ears like a warning. 

When I was ready? The phrase lingered like a taunt, my mind racing with what lay beyond that door - would it be the domestic scene I'd requested, a cozy space where Mistress Andrea waited to scold and spank me like the naughty wife I felt I was? Or something more insidious, the unknown twisting at my stomach and electrifying my senses. 

With a deep breath that did little to steady me, I clicked through the door behind the desk, the hall beyond lonely and dimly lit, deathly quiet save for the echo of my heels, each step amplifying the solitude, moving me farther away from my vanilla minivan and vanilla life, into the depths of the Facility, the walls lined with closed doors that hinted at other sessions, other secrets unfolding in silence. 

The first door on the left was unassuming, plain wood with a brass handle that felt cold against my palm as I knocked tentatively, my knuckles rapping softly, heart pounding so fiercely I could feel it in my fingertips. Hearing nothing - no voice, no stir - I summoned what courage I had left, turning the knob and letting myself in. The room unfolded like a warm embrace - a cozy living room bathed in the soft flicker of a gas fireplace, flames dancing behind a glass screen, casting golden hues across plush armchairs, a worn leather sofa, and a coffee table unsettling so, housing a box of tissues. The space was homely and domestic, like a snapshot from a family home, complete with framed art on the walls and a rug that muffled my heels. 

Is this where I was to be spanked? 

The thought sent a fresh wave of butterflies through me, my stomach twisting tighter, arousal pulsing low as I imagined being bent over that sofa arm, jeans yanked down, panties at my knees, her hand surveying a blank canvas. 

My eyes fell on another note, placed neatly on an end table beside a small vase of fresh flowers, the cream stationary matching the first. With trembling hands, I picked it up... 

The words "deal with you" landed like a hammer, my breath gasping, heart racing as I spotted the chair - a simple wooden one, armless and sturdy, tucked in the far corner like a sentinel waiting for it's purpose. 

I moved it with shaky arms, the wood scraping lightly across the rug as I positioned it in the middle of the room, the fireplace's warmth licking at my skin, contrasting the chill of dread coiling in my gut. Then, with feet that felt leaden, I approached the corner, leaving my jacket behind, turning to face the walls where they meet in a sharp angle, the paint a soft cream that seemed to close in around me. Nose inches from the surface, feet together in my patent nude heels, hands at my sides - fingers twitching nervously against my jeans - I stood motionless, the posture a surrender that amplified everything! 

The quintessential armless chair now perched in the center of the room loomed behind me, its simple lines a harbinger of the most traditional of domestic setups - the kind where a stern figure like Mistress Andrea would sit, legs crossed perhaps in her authoritative attire, and pull me over her knee like a wayward child, jeans and panties hiked down in one swift motion, her hand or something worse, descending in a steady rhythm until my amazing mom-ass burned with fire, tears streaming as I kicked and sobbed, the intimacy of the position - my body draped helplessly, face down, ass up - stripping away every layer of my adult façade.

This is what coursed through my mind while I was in the corner, the thoughts sent waves crashing through me, my pussy clenching and releasing with each imagined smack. Yet beneath the fear of the unknown, was a profound, terrifying longing - the urge to be "dealt with," to surrender control and let the pain purge my guilts, the anticipation a knife's edge of dread and desire that left me trembling, breathless, waiting in the corner for her arrival, aroused and terrified in equal, overwhelming measure. 

Yours Truly, 

Heather

Continued in: Terror and Arousal