The Exorcism of Alexis DiPaulo

[F/f] [lezdom] [F/m] [dominatrix] 

Continued from: Whips, Whisks and Wildcards

Oh, darlings, the Facility’s been a whirlwind these days—sessions stacking up like a deck of deliciously deviant cards, each one a fresh canvas for my artful torments. But lately, a little storm cloud’s been hovering over my empire, and it’s got me torn in ways I didn’t expect. Several of my most trusted clients—those loyal souls who’ve bared their bottoms and secrets to me—have whispered complaints about Alexis. My fiery little protégé, the one with that bratty spark I adore, apparently pushing the sanity of things just a tad too far. A sub left a session shaken, not in the good way, muttering about boundaries blurred into oblivion; another canceled a follow-up, citing “intensity overload” that skirted too close to the edge without that careful calibration I insist upon. I know it’s her youth, that unbridled enthusiasm bubbling over like champagne from a shaken bottle, but as her boss—and let’s be honest, her lover—it’s my duty to rein it in. Get her back on track before a safe word turns into a lawsuit.

The awkwardness, though? That’s the real whip cracking at my resolve. Alexis and I… god, the intimacy over these past few months has been explosive, a tangle of power plays and passion that leaves us both breathless and bruised in the best ways. Her hands on my leash, my lips on her skin— we’ve danced that dominant-submissive tango so frequently, flipping roles like pages in a forbidden book, that a professional chat feels like navigating a minefield in stilettos. How do you scold the girl who had you collared and cuffed just last night, moaning her name? But courage, as I always tell my subs, is just fear with a firm hand. So I summoned it, picking up the intercom in my home office—a sleek space tucked away from the Facility’s main play areas, all polished wood desks and leather-bound ledgers masking the kink just beyond the door.

“Alexis, darling,” I purred into the receiver, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. “Come to the office when you’re done with your client. We need to chat.”

She arrived minutes later, still in her session attire—black leather corset cinching her waist like a promise of pain, fishnet stockings climbing her legs in a web of temptation, elbow-length gloves that screamed “touch me if you dare.” She looked amazing, a vision of dark allure with her hair tousled from whatever wicked work she’d just wrapped, that gold cross necklace dangling ironically between her cleavage. Me? I was the picture of sexy conservatism: a tailored business suit hugging my curves just right, the skirt skimming my thighs with professional tease, paired with heels that clicked authority and nude hose that whispered elegance. Seated behind my desk, I felt the power shift back to me, but those memories of our intimacies lingered like perfume in the air.

She sauntered in with that signature sway, a smirk playing on her lips. “What’s up, boss lady? Miss me already?”

I gestured to the chair opposite, keeping my tone even, that elegant edge sharpening just a touch. “Sit down, Alexis. We have to have a conversation.”

Oh, the weight of that moment hung in the air like the scent of leather after a long session—thick, unavoidable, and laced with tension. Alexis plopped into the chair with that signature smirk, crossing her fishnet-clad legs like she owned the room, her black leather corset gleaming under the office lights. I leaned forward on my desk, the tailored suit pulling just right across my shoulders, my nude hose whispering as I shifted in my heels. “Lexi, darling,” I started, keeping my voice as delicate as a feather tickling skin, “you’re a natural—bold, creative, with that fire that lights up a scene. But even when clients don’t tap out with their safewords, we have to layer in some common sense, some sanity. For Christ’s sake, our vision statement is safe, sane, and consensual. It’s not just words on a wall; it’s the foundation that keeps everyone coming back without regrets.”

She rolled her eyes, that bratty narcissism bubbling up like champagne she couldn’t contain, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, come on, Andrea—it’s all in good fun. They love it; that’s why they book me. If it was too much, they’d say the magic word. I’m just giving them what they really want, deep down.”

I shook my head gently, disappointment creeping in like a slow bind. “It’s not that simple, Lexi. We’ve had a few complaints—whispers from trusted clients about pushing too far.”

Her smirk faltered for a split second, but she recovered with a giggle, twirling a gloved finger through her hair. “Complaints? From who? Everyone leaves my sessions glowing.”

I took a breath, steadying myself. “Did you try to penetrate Mrs. Palmer’s vagina with a wine bottle?”

I was going to include a visual representation of that for all of you here, but this is one of those times I don't think a visual aid is needed. 

Alexis burst into giggles, covering her mouth like it was the funniest secret. “Oh, that? She never used her safeword! And hello, she specifically asked for a penetration scene—said she wanted something ‘unconventional.’ I was just being creative! She came like a fountain, by the way.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, the elegance of my suit feeling like armor in this battlefield. “Creativity is one thing, Lexi, but—”

“And what else?” she interrupted, smirking wider, leaning in like she was daring me.

I met her gaze evenly. “Did you try to electrocute Patrick’s balls with a bug zapper?”

We can show this one! It's actually kind of a cute idea: 

That smirk didn’t fade; if anything, it sharpened, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Electrocute? Dramatic much? It was just one of those tennis racket zappers—you know, for mosquitoes and bees and shit. Zap-zap, a little buzz, nothing lethal. He was rock hard in his dick cage the whole time, begging for more. Again, no safeword.”

I shook my head in disappointment, the words forming on my lips— we need to adjust, tone it down, find balance— but before I could utter them, Alexis exploded like a firecracker I’d lit too close.

“What, you’re firing me?” she snapped, jumping to her feet, her leather attire creaking with the sudden movement. “No one has ever fired me! I don’t audition for jobs—jobs audition for me!”

“Lexi, wait—I’m not—”

But she was already storming toward the door, that fiery temper flaring like a poorly aimed flogger. “Daddy’s gonna sue your ass off! Fine, I guess I’m fired!” The door slammed behind her, her heels clicking away in a furious staccato, leaving me there with a sigh, the office suddenly too quiet.

Boy, that escalated quickly. My Spidey sense was telling me not to go after her. That perhaps the Lulu Lemon headband she wears when she works out is to hold in all the crazy! God, cray-cray turned out to be the understatement of the year. 

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

After that explosive fallout with Alexis—my wild, unpredictable spark who stormed out declaring war—I braced for the legal hammer from her “daddy.” You know the type: some wealthy patriarch ready to sic lawyers on anyone who dares cross his princess. I imagined the papers arriving any day—cease and desists, defamation suits, the works—served with a smug grin by some suit in a sedan. Days turned to weeks, and… nothing. No envelopes sealed with malice, no process servers knocking at my door. Just silence from that front, a void that somehow felt more ominous than any lawsuit.

But what did arrive? Daily text messages from Alexis herself, pinging my phone like erratic heartbeats, each one a glimpse into her unraveling storm. One day, it’d be venom: “I hate you, you controlling bitch,” followed by a string of knife emojis that made my stomach twist. The next? A barrage of six eggplant emojis, blatant and teasing, stirring memories of our heated nights despite myself. Then the love bombs: “We can be together forever, Andrea—live in a mansion, just you and me. I love you so much.” Sweet, desperate pleas that tugged at something soft in me, even as warning bells rang. Scattered among them were confessions about her meds—things I hadn’t known before our whirlwind started. “Daddy changed my cycle again,” she’d text, rambling about dosages and side effects, her words slurring into incoherence like she was typing through a fog. It painted a picture I hadn’t seen coming, this hidden layer of fragility beneath her bratty fire.

One heated exchange late at night escalated into chaos—me firing back about her mood swings, her retorts flying fast and furious. In a moment of frustration, I typed, “You need an exorcism, Lexi.” It was half-joke, half-exasperation, but it struck a chord— that gold cross she always wore around her neck, dangling like a talisman of her “wholesome” façade. Silence followed, then the backlash: accusations, tears in text form, the conversation spiraling until I signed off, exhausted.

The next day, my phone buzzed with a video attachment. I hit play, and there she was—filming herself in her bathroom mirror, scissors in hand, laughing and crying in this manic symphony as she hacked at her beautiful dark waves. Chunks fell into the sink like discarded dreams, her eyes wild, mascara streaking. “Look what you made me do!” she wailed between giggles, the sound chilling me to my core. I stared, frozen, the elegant poise I’d always projected cracking just a bit.

That same night, another video: her perched on the toilet, applying lipstick all over her face—smearing it in chaotic swirls beyond her lips, across her cheeks and forehead like war paint gone wrong. “Look how pretty I am!” she cooed to the camera, her voice high and unhinged, giggling as the red smeared into a clownish mask. “Psycho!!” I muttered to myself, but the word tasted bitter—concern mixing with the remnants of our passion, leaving me unsettled.

I guess this is an example of our relationship status changing to "it's complicated", as the texts eventually dwindled to nothing. Complicated... more of a metaphor for the tangled web Alexis wove around my heart—knots of passion pulled tight, then frayed by her storms. Did she leave me with a broken heart? Nah, the crazy far outweighed the fleeting feelings—the manic videos, the med rants, that wildfire of hers burning too hot, too unpredictable. It scorched, sure, but what's a little scar tissue on my heart to a woman who deals in welts and bruises? Toughens the skin, sharpens the resolve. I'll cherish the thrills we shared, those electric flips of power that left me breathless and bound, but onward I go—whip in hand, heart intact, ready for whatever wildcard comes next. 

I wouldn't have expected my deck to have two wildcards in it, but then the day came... that I met Brandy and Jessika

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

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