Pedal to Submission

[F/f] [lezdom] [kink] [collared]

Continued from: Collared Cravings

The Porsche’s engine purrs like a caged panther under Alexis’s command, her strappy stiletto sandal jammed pedal to the floor as we slice through the city streets with the kind of reckless abandon that got her in my judicial wing in the first place. Music blasts from the premium sound system—some thumping electronic remix that vibrates through the leather seats, matching the pulse between my thighs—while I sit submissively in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly in my lap like a good little pet, head bowed in this surreal haze of surrender. The collar clings to my neck, that rose gold padlock a constant, humiliating tug with every sway of the car, and the matching butt plug shifts deep inside me over every pothole and turn, sending these teasing, electric sparks that make my pussy clench involuntarily. 

God, the irony—me, Mistress Andrea, the unchallenged ruler of my Facility, where I orchestrate elaborate scenes of dominance and degradation, now reduced to this by a girl ten years my junior. In my own twisted world, no less. Yet here I am, utterly enchanted by her audacity, her youthful fire that flips the script so effortlessly it’s almost magical. My black panties are soaked through, the plug a relentless reminder of my shocking compliance, every bump in the road grinding it just right, building that forbidden heat.

“Make yourself useful,” Alexis says suddenly, her voice a bratty purr cutting through the bass, one hand gripping the wheel while the other yanks up the hem of her sinfully short black mini dress. The fabric bunches at her hips, exposing those toned thighs, and she hooks a finger into the thin string of her panties—barely-there lace that matches her gold cross’s hypocritical innocence—pulling them aside to reveal her smooth, glistening pussy, already flushed and ready. “Finger my pussy, pet.”

The command hangs in the air like a challenge, and I comply without a second’s hesitation, my hand sliding across the console, fingers dipping between her thighs into that hot, wet heat. She’s drenched, clenching greedily around my two fingers as I curl them inside her, thrusting in time with the music’s beat, finding that sweet spot that makes her squeal—a high, delighted sound that echoes in the cabin. The car surges forward, tires humming louder against the asphalt as she presses the gas harder, weaving through lanes with a wild grin. “Faster, pet—oh fuck, yes! Just like that, make me drip all over your hand.”

Her hips buck subtly against my palm, the Porsche’s speedometer climbing as her arousal ramps up, and I work her deeper, my thumb circling her clit in tight, insistent swirls that draw out more moans. The humiliation burns through me—fingering her like a devoted sub while she drives like a maniac—but it’s laced with that enchantment, her control over me so complete, so unexpected, that it only heightens the thrill. The plug in my ass grinds with every shift, teasing me mercilessly, my own pussy throbbing in sympathy.

“Now into your mouth,” she commands, voice husky and breathless, eyes flicking to me for a split second before snapping back to the road. “Taste me. Tell me how delicious I am! And call me Miss DiPaulo.”

I double my efforts, fingers pumping deeper, faster, slick sounds filling the car as I lean closer—the seatbelt straining, the plug pressing insistently with the angle—building her toward the edge. “Yes, Miss DiPaulo,” I murmur, pulling my fingers free with a wet pop and sucking them clean, her flavor exploding on my tongue: youthful and sweet, like ripe summer berries with a musky undertone that makes my mouth water and my cheeks flush hotter than the dashboard lights. God, the degradation of it—tasting her while collared and plugged, my face burning with this role-reversed shame—but I can’t deny how intoxicating she is. “You taste delicious, thank you, Miss DiPaulo."

“Now taste me again,” she demands, grinning wildly as she guns it through a yellow light, the engine roaring in approval.

“Yes, Miss DiPaulo.” I plunge back in, fingers slicking through her folds before thrusting deep once more, working her relentlessly as the city lights blur past. Her squeals turn to gasps, the car hitting speeds that flirt with danger, but she keeps control—barely—until we screech to a halt at the valet stand of the swankiest restaurant in town, all gleaming glass facades and uniformed attendants who do their best not to stare.

Stepping out, I smooth my sweater dress, but the stares from the crowd are impossible to ignore—whether it’s because we’re both drop-dead gorgeous, me in my off-shoulder cable-knit and thigh-high stiletto boots, her in that barely-there LBD that screams “trouble,” or because of the obvious slave collar locked around my neck, its rose gold accents catching the valet lights like a beacon of kink. I shift uncomfortably as we hand over the keys, the plug pressing deeper with the movement, a secret torment that makes my steps deliberate and my core ache with every click of my boots.

Inside, the ambiance is all hushed luxury—crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the murmur of elite diners—but Alexis doesn’t dial it back. At our candlelit table, she leans in with a wicked gleam, her foot brushing my calf under the cloth. “Doesn’t my pet look stunning in her collar tonight?” she teases, voice carrying just enough for the couple nearby to glance over, eyebrows raised. 

She makes me squirm further by forcing the protocol into our dinner order: “Miss DiPaulo will have the filet mignon, medium rare,” I say to our handsome young waiter, whose eyes widen just a fraction at the “Miss DiPaulo” before he nods professionally, scribbling it down. My humiliation simmers, cheeks flushing under the dim lights, but that enchantment weaves through it all—her public teasing a thrill I didn’t know I craved.

We chat "normally" between sips of the finest P.N. and bites of perfectly seared steak—about controlling men, how I craft scenes in the Facility to break them down layer by layer, turning alpha executives into sobbing sissies begging for release or locked-up toys denied even a whisper of pleasure. She laughs at the wilder client requests: the one who paid a fortune for weekend of slave-maid chores, edged endlessly by remote plugs; another, a high-powered lawyer who craved public outings in hidden chastity during his board meetings, the buzz of my app-controlled toy making him stutter through presentations. “You’d be amazed what breaks them,” I confess, my voice low and conspiratorial, the collar a subtle tug with every word, reminding me of my own temporary vulnerability. “A well-placed plug or a locked cage, and they’re putty.”

Alexis nods, her red toes peeking from those strappy heels as she crosses her legs, sharing her own fantasies about wielding that power. The conversation flows like the wine, easy and electric, until the check comes and we head out, the valet bringing the Porsche around with a knowing grin.

Back at the Facility, the night air cool against our skin, Alexis doesn’t let the dynamic fade. She points to the polished floor of the room with a wicked, commanding smile, her gold cross glinting innocently above her cleavage as she clips a rose gold leash to my collar, telling me to crawl on all fours. 

“Yes, Miss DiPaulo,” I reply, the words slipping out degradingly compliant, my voice a mix of humiliation and that persistent enchantment. I drop to all fours right there in the elegant foyer—me, in my elegantly dominant attire, the off-shoulder sweater dress riding up my thighs to expose the tops of my stiletto boots, the fabric bunching awkwardly as my knees meet the cold tile. 

The collar shifts with the motion, its weight pulling me down further into this role, while the plug grinds deeper with every forward crawl, a constant, teasing pressure that makes my pussy throb and my breath hitch. God, the degradation of it—crawling like a pet in my own empire, the place where I’ve made countless others kneel and beg, now reduced to this by her youthful whims. My high pony sways with each deliberate movement, boots scraping softly against the floor as I lead her through the luxurious halls, past the racks of floggers and cuffs that usually hang under my command, now silent witnesses to my surrender.

She follows behind, her stilettos clicking in slow, triumphant steps, occasionally murmuring encouragements like “Good girl, keep that ass up high—let me see that plug work its magic.” The journey feels endless, every inch of tile a reminder of my shocking compliance—hands pressing into the cool surface, knees aching slightly but the humiliation burning hotter, enchanting me with its raw intensity. My panties are soaked anew, the plug’s jeweled base shifting with each crawl, sending waves of pleasure-pain that make me bite my lip to stifle a moan. 

“Lead me to your bed, pet...show me where we're gonna fuck," Alexis purrs. 

Finally, we reach my private chambers—the sprawling master bedroom with its silk sheets and scent of diffusers—and I pause at the threshold, head still bowed, waiting for her next command, utterly melting in the hands of this bold little thing who’s turned my world upside down.

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

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