Paddle Sisters

[F/ff] [spanking] [cornertime] [humiliation] [schoolgirl] [mdlg] [bisexual]

Continued from: Takin' The Piss

You guys, it’s Jessika here, and like, I need to redefine something I said before about me and Brandy being “slave sisters.” Hehe, that was kinda over-the-top dramatic, but it’s not quite right. See, neither of us has asked to play in the heavier spaces of the Facility—you know, the ones where knee socks and Mary Janes get traded for collars and cuffs, where leather and bondage take over, and hairbrushes turn into floggers that leave you marked for days. Mistress Andrea hasn’t offered, and we haven’t pushed for it either, even though we’ve snuck into that wing of the Facility on many occasions, tiptoeing like little rebels on a side-quest. 

Omg, it’s thrilling every time—heart pounding as we creep through the dim halls, peeking at all the toys and sexual torment areas. The cages look so cold and confining, like metal traps waiting to snap shut on some poor sub; the cells with their padded walls and chains dangling from the ceiling give off this intense, forbidden vibe; machines that hum with scary potential, like they could tease or torment for hours without mercy; and the implements hanging on racks—whips, paddles, straps that make my stomach flip just imagining the sting. 

We’ve giggled and whispered about it, blushing like crazy at the thought of being strapped down or locked away, but we always scamper back to our side before getting caught, hearts racing from the danger. It’s tempting, that darker edge, like peeking into a boss level we’re not ready for yet, but for now, we’re not there. Brandy and I are bonded only by maternal, domestic discipline—paddle sisters, in a sense. 

Like, we’re under Mistress’s roof for the structure and spankings that keep us accountable, the kind that sting our bums and our pride, not the full-on BDSM plunge... yet.

And boy, do we ever take the piss out of each other when one of us is being punished and the other isn’t. Hehe, it’s become our signature thing—amplifying the humiliation with little taunts and teases that make it all so much worse in the moment, twisting that knife of shame deeper while the spanks rain down, then make-up and podcast about it the next day. 

Like, if Brandy’s over Mistress’s knee in that mock living room, her jeans and panties at her ankles, bum turning pink then red with each smack, I’ll lean in the doorway (if Mistress allows) and say something bratty like, “Aww, look at that jiggling bum, Miss After Dark—bet your fans would pay extra for a vid of you kicking like that!” 

Or if it’s my turn, bent over the stool with my sundress flipped up, panties down, feeling that hairbrush bite into my cheeks, Brandy’ll giggle from the corner and mock, “Miss Gamer Toes, your toes are wiggling like they want the hairbrush too— so cute and helpless!” 

It’s mean-girl energy at its finest, belittling each other to crank up the embarrassment—making the punished one feel even smaller, more childish, like a total crybaby at 24. 

Omg, the humiliation is severe in those moments, tears streaming as you beg and promise while your “sister” laughs, but later? Ugh, it converts directly into arousal. That shared shame turns into this warm, tingly spark between us, drawing us in ways I never expected.

Like, the first time I heard Brandy getting spanked across the hall in that childish dorm room? I was in my bed, the covers pulled up tight, listening to the muffled cries and smacks, her begging all high and whiny, “Please, I’m sorry!” It was humiliating for her, but for me? This mix of sympathy and that secret rush built so fast I couldn’t stop my hand from slipping under my panties. Omg, I was already wet just from the sounds, my fingers circling my clit slowly at first, building with each crack of the hairbrush or whatever Mistress was using. 

My breath hitched as I imagined it—her bare bum turning red, her longer legs kicking helplessly. The fear of getting caught listening made it hotter, that taboo thrill pushing me closer. I rubbed faster, dipping fingers inside myself, the wetness slick and warm, my hips bucking under the covers as her sobs turned to promises and I pictured myself in her place.

It hit me hard—heavy waves crashing over me, my whole body tensing as I came with this deep, shuddering orgasm that left me gasping, thighs quivering, a wet spot on the sheets. Ugh, so intense, that release mixing shame and satisfaction while her punishment wrapped up. We’ve gotten so close, Brandy and I, cuddling after, whispering about how it felt, that spark growing until it’s more than just friends.

A few months in, and we’re finishing up a day of online classes—me working on graphic design stuff, Brandy on her marketing assignments—and omg, those ridiculous childish schoolgirl uniforms? Still a thing. I've always been more of the aggressor—I’m the one who starts the teasing, the bold moves—while Brandy’s reserved and shy, blushing at everything. 

But that day, as we log off, I hold her close, our uniforms brushing, and kiss her on the lips for the first time. Soft, tentative at first, but she doesn’t protest—she kisses back, her hands finding my waist. Omg, my heart exploded. “Sneak into my room after ten tonight,” I whisper, grinning. Brandy looks worried— “But if we get caught? Punishment…” —but the temptation’s drawing her in, her eyes sparkling with that same mix of fear and thrill we chase. 

Hehe, what could go wrong?

This has been Jessika, signing off for now. 

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