You asked to see us, Ma'am?

[F/f] [F/ff] [domestic discipline] [spanking] [cornertime] [humiliation] [lezdom]

Continued from: Hidden Talents

Life at the Facility. Like, omg, where do I even start? This place is our little wonderland, tucked away in that anonymous industrial park, but inside? It’s this perfect mix of cozy and commanding, where Brandy and I have found our groove. The environment we live in isn’t what you’d expect from a fetish studio—no dark dungeons or constant chaos, just this warm, structured space that feels like a home with a kinky twist. The halls are all soft lighting and polished floors, our wing smelling like fresh laundry and whatever yummy thing Mistress is whipping up in the kitchen. It’s not oppressive at all—no raised voices, no endless scolding. Mistress Andrea conducts herself with this calm, maternal, and assertive grace that’s like… intoxicating. She’s always so composed, her raven hair falling perfectly, that elegant skirt-suit or her sexy "mom" jeans hugging her curves just right. When she speaks, it’s firm but kind, like a mom who knows exactly what’s best for you. Hehe, it’s that vibe that makes you want to please her, even when you know you’re in trouble.

Spankings here? Omg, they’re as common as brushing your teeth before bed or being asked to take out the trash. Like, it’s just part of the routine—no big drama, no buildup of anger. Brandy and I never protest, never put up a fight. We know the drill by heart now. When Mistress perches herself on that straight-backed chair—the one in the mock living room with the grey brick walls and retro couch—she pats her lap, and that’s our cue. 

We pull down our pants (or skirts, if it’s a school day), pull down our underwear—those plain white panties that feel so childish and exposing—and lay across her knees like good girls. It’s real, it’s domestic, it’s in the moment. 

Maybe we forgot bedtime, or slacked on our online classes, or broke curfew sneaking around. Or sometimes it’s just for maintenance—when Mistress feels we need a reminder to stay on track, even if we haven’t “screwed up.” The spankings sting, leave our bums red and throbbing for hours, but it’s that calm grace of hers that makes it feel… right. No yelling, just her voice guiding us through it, “This is for your own good, sweetheart,” while her hand or the paddle comes down steady and sure.

Standing in the corner of a room with your red bum bare? Hehe, it’s as common as seeing a lamp in the corner of a room. Like, after a spanking, we’ll be sent there—nose to the wall, hands on head or at sides, that bare, stinging bum on display for however long she decides. Five minutes? Ten? Thirty if it’s bad? The humiliation is very real—omg, at 24, feeling like a little girl with your cheeks glowing for anyone to see (usually just Mistress, Brandy or the sissies scurrying by)? It’s mortifying, that vulnerability making you squirm and sniffle, tears dripping as you think about what you did. But hehe, that’s the point— it sinks in deep, that love-hate rush where you hate the shame but love how it keeps you accountable.

Me and Brandy—are kept under a very strict and watchful eye, and we both love and hate the discipline we’re subjected to. Love it ‘cause it’s that structure we needed—bedtimes that force us to log off, study schedules that push us through our degrees, rules that make us feel cared for in this maternal way. Hate it when it stings—literally, our bums paying the price for slip-ups. 

If we really need to be brought down a peg or two, that’s when the dreadfully embarrassing age-regressed outfits come out, like the school uniforms for class days, or even worse, Disney princess training pull-ups for those rare “extra reminder” days. It’s not often—Mistress saves it for when we’ve been super bratty—but omg, waddling around in pull-ups under a frilly dress? The humiliation is next level, that childish crinkle with every step making your face burn, but… ugh, the arousal sneaks in too, that forbidden thrill of being so reduced. We love the care, hate the corrections, but it’s all part of this magical balance that’s changed us for the better. 

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Oh my gosh, you guys, so Brandy and I were chilling in our rooms after a long day of online classes—me grinding through graphic design assignments, her on her marketing stuff—when Mistress’s voice came over the intercom, summoning both of us down to the kitchen. My heart did a little flip right away; her tone was all casual-maternal, like “come down for a snack,” but there’s always that undercurrent, you know? That “are we in trouble?” vibe that makes your bum tingle in anticipation and your pussy betray the fuck out of you. 

We hurried down, both in comfies now (no uniforms after class, yay), Brandy in her jean shorts and tee, me in some camo number I threw together, holding hands like we always do when nerves kick in. The kitchen’s this bright, modern spot—stainless steel counters gleaming, big windows letting in the afternoon sun, that homey smell of fresh food always lingering ‘cause Mistress loves her cooking. 

And there she was, looking so adorable in her cute chef whites—a crisp jacket with a little Canada flag embroidered on the sleeve, that lovely contrast to her raven black hair falling in soft waves. She was hand-rolling sushi with this focused grace, her fingers nimble as she spread the rice evenly on the nori, adding thin slices of avocado, cucumber, and that fresh salmon she gets from the market. Then she switched to cutting sashimi—expert flicks of the knife, creating these perfect, thin pieces that looked like edible art, all pink and glossy on the plate. 

Omg, I smiled lovingly, feeling that warm appreciation swell up—we’re so spoiled by Mistress! She doesn’t have to do this, prepping lunches like a pro chef, but she does, turning every meal into something special. “See the fat marbling through this salmon?” she said, holding up a piece, her voice all soft and teaching. “That’s what makes it melt in your mouth—so rich and flavorful. And the tuna? Highest quality, fresh as can be—no fishy aftertaste, just pure, clean taste.” She hummed a little song to herself as she worked—something jazzy and light, her hips swaying slightly as she arranged the rolls with wasabi dots, ginger slices, and those artistic soy sauce swirls. Watching her was mesmerizing, like she was creating art with food, and it made me feel all cared for, even with that uneasy tension looming in the air.

But yeah, the vibe felt off—thicker than usual, even with the yummy smells filling the room. I finally mustered up the courage and asked, “You asked to see us, Ma’am?” My voice came out smaller than I meant, that submissive tone kicking in, my hands fidgeting behind my back as I remembered that podcast blurt again. Omg, what if that’s why? My stomach twisted, arousal mixing with dread—punished for talking about our secret night?

Mistress looked up from her work, smiling but with this annoyed edge in her eyes that made my heart drop. “Yes, I did.” We both shifted instinctively—standing more submissively, scolded without a word yet. Hands behind our backs, heads down, feet tight together, looking at our toes like guilty kids. She raised a disapproving eyebrow, that look alone making my cheeks heat up even more. “I listened to your podcast last night,” she said casually, but with that maternal sternness that cut right through. “It was… an interesting episode.” Omg, there it was—the blurt about Brandy and I having sex for the first time. My face burned, and I could feel Brandy tense beside me, her breath catching. Mistress went back to plating for a second, arranging the sushi like nothing was wrong, then added, “I’d like to see the two of you down in the living room after lunch, so we can have a little ‘chat’.”

Hehe, “chat.” Yeah, right—we both knew what that meant. A spanking for sure. My bum tingled just thinking about it, that mix of dread and secret thrill bubbling up. “Yes, Ma’am,” we chorused, voices all small and obedient. She handed us our plates of sushi—beautifully arranged, with soy sauce swirls and everything— and we took them, leaving the room with our heads still down, that looming “chat” hanging over us like a storm cloud. 

Was it worth it? Convincing Brandy to sneak into my room after lights out, riding her pouty lips to a ferocious orgasm, kissing and cuddling—tasting my own arousal all over her lips before returning the favour and going down on her until she climaxed?... Absolutely! 

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Brandy and I ate our sushi so deliberately slowly in my room, picking at those perfect rolls and sashimi slices with our chopsticks, like we could stretch lunch into forever and avoid what was coming. The flavors were amazing— that fresh salmon melting on my tongue, the tuna so clean and buttery, the wasabi kick making my eyes water a bit (or maybe that was the nerves hehe). We sat on my bed, cross-legged in our casual clothes, giggling nervously between bites, but we both knew the clock was ticking. Mistress’s “little chat” loomed, and no amount of soy sauce dipping could delay it. My stomach was all twisty—not just from the food, but from that mix of dread and secret thrill, my secret spanking fetish bubbling up, making me squirm. At 24? Knowing we were headed to that mocked-up living room, the space designed purely for spanking? It felt so childish, so humiliating, but omg, that’s what made my white panties—plain and boring as always—start to feel a little damp. I hated how aroused I got from the anticipation, but loved it too—that internal fight where terror and excitement crash together like waves in a boss fight I can’t pause.

Eventually, we couldn’t stall anymore. We set our empty plates aside, exchanged this knowing look—like, “Here we go”—and slowly shuffled our way down the hall to the living room. We’ve done this walk many times before, that slow, reluctant march where every step feels heavier, your bum tingling in advance like it remembers the sting. The Facility’s halls are all quiet and echoing, our footsteps soft but ominous, my toes curled in my sandals, that glossy white polish catching the light, reminding me how exposed I’d soon be. 

We stepped into the mocked-up living room—that grey-walled space over brick, all retro furniture like a 70s sitcom set, but with that sturdy chair and stool lurking like they knew their purpose. Without a word, we knew what to do: strip down to just our white bras and white panties, plain and childish like always, the kind that ride up and make you feel so small and innocent.

We stood in front of the wooden coffee table, looking down at what the “sushi chef” had nearly laid out with her artistic flare—like she was plating a meal of misery. Two leather belts coiled like snakes, thick and worn; a wooden paddle, broad and unyielding, the kind that thuds deep; a rubber-soled sandal, flexible for that whippy sting; a wooden spoon and spatula, innocent kitchen tools turned evil. And a box of tissues, mocking us like “You’ll need these for the tears.”

This has been Jessika, signing off for now. 

Continued in: Terminal 3

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