Impaled Interludes

[F/f] [lezdom] [humiliation] [spanking] [age regression]

Continued from: Terminal 3

The Facility hums with its usual symphony of secrets today—the distant clink of a sissy’s heels on the tile, the soft whir of a machine in a far room teasing some lucky sub, and here in my office, the quiet, labored breaths of my afternoon client, Tessa, punctuating the air like a metronome of mortification. Brandy and Jessika have scampered off to the airport, all giggles and anticipation, to fetch their little UK friend Willow— that adorable sprite they’ve chattered about endlessly on their podcast. I’m excited to meet her myself; from what I’ve gleaned, she’s a perfect blend of curiosity and cheek, ripe for our domestic delights. But for now, my focus lingers on the exquisite tableau before me as I settle at my desk, fingers dancing over the keys to craft my latest blog entry, the words flowing like the slick arousal I know is pooling beneath Tessa’s skirt.

Tessa, my 48-year-old mother and wife— a pillar of suburban respectability by day, with her minivan carpools and PTA meetings—stands in the corner of my office like a naughty schoolgirl caught passing notes. She’s topless, her full breasts bare and heaving with each shallow breath, nipples hardened by the cool draft and the unrelenting shame of her predicament. The plaid skirt clings to her hips, short enough to tease but long enough to hide the true torment below, paired with those crisp knee socks hugging her calves and the shiny Mary Janes on her feet, their buckles glinting mockingly. Yet it’s the one-bar prison that truly ensnares her—a simple, insidious device: an adjustable metal rod rising from its platform base, topped with a large, realistic dildo that penetrates her vaginally, impaling her in place.

Her ankles are handcuffed together, wrists bound behind her back in steel that bites just enough to remind her of her helplessness. There’s no escape; she can’t lift off the intrusion without my intervention, the rod locked high to fill her completely, her body stretched taut, every subtle shift grinding the silicone deeper inside her slick, unwillingly aroused folds.

She’d earned this after a sound spanking over my knee—her mature curves draped across my lap like an offering, skirt flipped up, panties yanked down, my hand delivering rapid, deliberate smacks that turned her cheeks from pale to pink to a vivid crimson glow. She’d sobbed and promised better behavior, her legs kicking futilely, that motherly composure cracking into childish pleas. For the first 30 minutes post-spanking, she’d faced out into the room in shame, impaled on the dildo hidden under her skirt, her arousal betraying her as it dripped down her thighs, mascara-streaked tears tracing paths over her flushed cheeks. When the timer ended, I lowered the rod with a twist of the mechanism, the wet pop echoing obscenely as she slid free. 

“Suck it clean, Tessa,” I commanded softly, and she did—bending at the waist, lips wrapping around the slick silicone, tasting her own shame, her tongue working diligently while her bound hands twitched behind her. 

Now, for the additional 30 minutes, she’s facing the corner, the dildo reinserted deep within her, her body once more a vessel of predicament humiliation. She whimpers softly, shifting minutely on her tiptoes, the handcuffs clinking like a subtle symphony of surrender, her pussy clenching around the intrusion in futile protest, that exquisite blend of degradation and unwanted pleasure leaving her trembling.

I type away at my blog, loosely ignoring her— the click of keys a rhythmic underscore to her quiet torment, each word I craft about elegant corrections and blissful submissions amplified by her presence. The office is my sanctuary: polished desk with its array of discreet implements tucked in drawers, walls adorned with subtle art that hints at kink without screaming it, the scent of leather and lavender from the diffusers mingling with the faint musk of her arousal. Tessa’s breaths come in ragged hitches, her body a living sculpture of shame—back arched slightly from the impalement, breasts pressing against the wall with each involuntary shift, her Mary Janes scraping softly as she balances on her toes. It’s dreadfully humiliating for her, this 48-year-old pillar of domesticity reduced to a schoolgirl impaled and ignored, her pussy stretched and filled while I casually compose. But that’s the beauty of it—the raw vulnerability, the lesson in patience and penance. Her session nears its end; soon I’ll release her, hug her tight, and send her back to her vanilla world with that secret glow.

For now, though, my thoughts drift to Willow’s imminent arrival—those girls chattering about her like a long-lost sister. I’m excited to meet this UK charmer, to see if she fits our little family of disciplined darlings. Perhaps she’ll sample a taste of my maternal grace… or more. Hehe, the possibilities are delicious.

Mistress Andrea xoxo

******************************************

The arrivals terminal at Pearson Airport was a whirlwind of noise and motion—families reuniting with joyful hugs, businessmen striding purposefully with briefcases in hand, the overhead announcements droning on about delayed flights—but my world narrowed to the anticipation bubbling inside me like a secret I could barely contain.

Jessika drove us back to the Facility, her playful energy filling the car as she pretended to be a cab driver, pointing out random landmarks and buildings with exaggerated flair. “And to your left, ladies, the majestic Tim Hortons—home of the double-double, a Canadian landmark since forever!” she’d say, her voice all mock-serious, making Willow and me giggle from the back seat. 

It lightened the mood, that silly tour-guide bit, but my focus was on Willow beside me—her hand warm in mine, our fingers interlaced like they’d always belonged together, her suitcase tucked at our feet as if she was already home.

Willow was excited but genuinely nervous, her British accent lilting with that adorable quiver as she leaned closer, her body pressing against mine in the cozy back seat. The scent of her—fresh from the flight, a hint of lavender from her perfume—mingled with the leather of the car, sending a soft thrill through me, my heart fluttering with that familiar mix of affection and desire. “Tell me more about Mistress Andrea,” she asked, her voice soft but urgent, her free hand fidgeting with the edge of her skirt. “I’m so intimidated by her— is she strict right away? Do I get spanked immediately, or in a few days? Does she collar me or put me into bondage straight off?”

I squeezed her hand reassuringly, feeling the warmth of her palm against mine, that simple touch igniting a gentle spark in my core—a reminder of our online intimacies, those heated video calls where we’d explored each other from afar. “Oh, love, Mistress is intimidating, but not in the way you think,” I replied politely, my voice steady despite the butterflies dancing in my tummy as I kissed her on the lips once more. “She’s more like a really cool aunt—calm, maternal, with this assertive grace that makes you feel safe and guided. No, you won’t get spanked right away; she eases you in, talks through everything first. And collars or bondage? That’s for the heavier play; we’re in the domestic side, so it’s more about structure and spankings when needed. You’ll love her—she’s firm but kind.”

Jessika chimed in from the driver’s seat, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror with a grin. “Yeah, Willow—no popping off right away. Mistress is all about consent and building trust. You’ll get to sample the spaces with us—the schoolroom for that naughty student vibe, the dungeon for a peek at the edgier stuff, the medical room with its stirrups and exams, and the nursery for some regressive fun. But it’s your pace.”

I turned back to Willow, my thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand, feeling the soft skin there, that intimate gesture stirring a warmth between my thighs—a subtle arousal building from the closeness, the memory of our online sessions where I’d dressed in scandalous lingerie for her, heels elongating my legs as I performed, my hands running over my bum in those lacy panties while she watched, our mutual climaxes syncing through the screen. “Did you correspond with Andrea about your likes, desires, wants, and needs?” I asked gently, my voice laced with curiosity and care.

Willow nodded, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink that made my heart swell. “Yes, I did. I believe I booked an age regression spanking experience in a Victorian-era setting. It said an olde English birching in the parlour, so naturally, I fancied the sound of that." 

Jessika assured her again, that playful cab-driver tone back. “Nothing pops off right away, Willow. But hey, surprise—Brandy has something for you!”

I felt my own cheeks heat, that shy romance blooming in my chest as I turned to Willow, the flowers from earlier still clutched between us like a promise. “I thought tonight, you and I could go on a date?” I said, my voice soft and romantic, my free hand brushing a strand of hair from her face, feeling the warmth of her skin under my fingers, that touch sending a gentle tingle through me.

Willow’s heart seemed to fill with warmth—her eyes lighting up, a smile spreading across her lips that made my butterflies dance wilder. “I’d love that, Brandy, but I've nothing fancy to wear,” she whispered, leaning in as Jessika giggled from the front seat, the car filled with that electric anticipation of what’s to come as Jessika teased, "I got you, Posh Spice...we're about the same little size."  

Sincerely, 

Brandy

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.