From Paddle to Pinot

[F/f] [lezdom] [spanking] [fetish] [kink] [ABDL] [judicial]

Continued from: Sassy Bitch

After the exciting first run of the newest Facility offering, you should see the judicial wing now—it’s a roaring success, my little courtroom of carnal corrections packed tighter than a sub’s restraints on a busy night. 

Simulated proceedings where the guilty plead to their sins, real or roleplayed, leading straight to booking and processing, judicial spankings that leave cheeks blushing, strappings that stripe with precision, canings that sing through the air like wicked whispers, and of course, the dreaded spanking machine, its mechanical arm delivering endless, rhythmic justice without a hint of mercy. 

New clients flood in daily—young rebels seeking attitude adjustments, silver foxes chasing lost thrills, everyone from baristas to boardroom bosses, all craving that gut-twist of judgment and the sweet sting of atonement. Who knew accountability could be so arousing?

And speaking of fresh delights, the classic antique classroom’s finally up and humming—a nostalgic sea of polished desks where adults don plaid kilts that flip up oh-so-easily, crisp knee socks hugging calves as they scribble lines on the chalkboard like naughty schoolkids. “I will not daydream about spankings” repeated a hundred times, or standing nose-to-corner with bums bared, cheeks on display for the class’s giggles. 

The truly disruptive get marched to the principal’s office—my domain—for detention and a hearty paddling, wood cracking against flesh until lessons are learned and tears flow freely. It’s adorably absurd, grown-ups reduced to blushing pupils, and I can’t help but smirk every time that people are paying me for this.

For the age regression crowd and diaper devotees, we’ve carved out a "Mommy" knows best, safe haven: a sickeningly pink nursery that’s equal parts cozy and cruel, walls splashed in pastel horrors, floors dotted with colouring books scribbled in crayon chaos, doll houses begging for tea parties, stuffies piled high for cuddles, and pacifiers dangling like silent sentinels. Diapers stacked neatly beside powders that puff like clouds of humiliation, wipes at the ready for those “accidents” that melt away adult armor. 

Picture this: a CEO powerhouse, all corporate suits and soccer-mom duties by day, stripped down to frilly diapers and a bib, babbling around a paci while I coo and correct. It’s the ultimate escape—humiliating freedom, where boardroom battles dissolve into bottle feeds and bottom pats, leaving her blissfully regressed and ridiculously aroused. Who wouldn’t want to trade PowerPoints for playtime?

But enough gloating—there is something more exciting to discuss as we cut-scene to me at my vanity in this sprawling master bedroom that’s more boudoir than bedroom—think silk sheets, fur throws, and walls lined with discreet hooks for my favorite restraints. The air’s humming with my favorite diffusers, pumping out a sultry mix of vanilla and vetiver that could make even a saint rethink their vows, while soft jazz croons from the speakers, all smoky saxophones and lazy rhythms. 

I'm going on a date!! 

And slipping into date mode, but with my signature edge: this pleasantly short cable-knit sweater dress, off one shoulders like it’s whispering secrets, paired with scandalous over-the-knee stiletto boots that scream “worship me… if you dare.” 

My long black hair’s slicked into a high pony, sharp and dominant, pulling everything taut. I’m dabbing on eyeliner, that perfect cat-eye flick, and I can’t help chuckling to myself, shaking my head in sheer disbelief. What a life, right? Me, Mistress Andrea, queen of kinks and curator of exquisite torments, getting all dolled up for a date. 

With HER! A little bundle of pure trouble!

Less than a month ago, Alexis DiPaulo—that spoiled little Anglo-Italian princess with her olive skin and endless legs—zoomed into my world like a red-light runner on steroids. Took Daddy’s Porsche SUV for a joyride, clocked speeds that screamed “street racing,” got the thing impounded, and left poor Papa missing workdays to bail her out. Guilt hit her hard, the real kind that vanilla fixes like cash or confession couldn’t touch. So she booked my Facility’s shiny new judicial wing, my inaugural client: stripped, shackled, sentenced to the spanking machine’s rhythmic justice. Bare-assed and buckled in, she sobbed her remorse while that mechanical arm painted her cheeks a perfect, lingering red. 

And now? Less than a month later, we’re off to dinner at the swankiest spot in town, all candlelit tables and overpriced wine. Life’s twists are kinkier than my best suspension rig.

She’s picking me up—bold move, but that’s Alexis. 

Headlights slice through the dusk, pulling up to the anonymous industrial unit that houses my empire of ecstasy and agony. The Porsche SUV, sleek and smug, like it never saw an impound lot. I watch from the lobby cams as she struts in, every step a statement: those amazing strappy stilettos clicking like judgments, her perfect toes peeking out in a bold red polish that matches her firecracker spirit. Sinfully short black mini dress hugging that rocket body—curves for days, her ass that I got to know well, perky, the fabric barely containing her. And there, nestled between her collarbones, that iconic gold cross, pretending she’s all wholesome and pure. Ha! As if. This girl’s anything but— a secret spanko with a bratty streak wider than her grin.

We meet in the lobby, and it’s instant sparks: a hug that lingers, bodies pressing just enough to tease, then a kiss on the lips, soft but hungry, her red pout tasting like cherry gloss and mischief. “Ready for our hot date?” she murmurs, eyes dancing. I smirk, looping my arm through hers. “Always, darling. But first, since you’ve only seen the courtroom side of my playground, how about a tour of the rest? The newly finished spaces, anyway."

Her eyes light up like I’ve handed her the keys to a candy store— or in her case, a kink emporium. We wander the halls, my boots echoing authority while her stilettos click in excited staccato. She’s a whirlwind, that one: running her perfectly manicured fingers—nails a glossy nude, classy with an edge—through the tendrils of my leather floggers, the soft suede whispering against her skin. She picks one up, playfully whipping her own thighs with a light snap, giggling as pink blooms faintly on her olive flesh. “Ooh, stingy!” Next, the racks of collars— velvet, chain, spiked—her touch lingering like she’s sizing them up for personal use. Then the metal handcuffs, clicking their teeth open and shut in her palm, that metallic snick making her bite her lip. And don’t get me started on the anal toys and realistic dildos arrayed like soldiers: she wraps her hand around one veiny silicone beast, stroking it with mock seriousness, jerking it off in slow, teasing pumps. “Mmm, feels… lifelike,” she purrs, winking at me. Kid in a candy store? More like a brat in a bondage boutique, eyes sparkling with pure mischief.

“It’s all so beautiful, Andrea,” she says finally, her voice a breathy smile, genuine awe mixing with that naughty glint. Then she spots it: an elegant black leather collar edged in rose gold, supple and sophisticated, the buckle gleaming like a promise. She picks it up, turning it over in her hands, and I catch it—a mischievous smile crossing those pouty lips, full of unspoken dares and delicious possibilities. But never in my wildest dreams, did I expected what happened next! 

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

Continued in: Collared Cravings

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.