Whips, Whisks and Wildcards

[femdom] [F/f] [F/m] [sissy] [lezdom] [spanking]

Continued from: Echoes of Agony

Lately, I’ve been meeting some truly amazing people—souls baring their deepest desires with a vulnerability that’s as intoxicating as a well-tied knot. The judicial wing’s sessions have been electric: a high-powered attorney “sentenced” to the spanking machine for 45 minutes of rhythmic redemption, his cheeks blooming that perfect even red while he whimpered promises of better behavior. Or the shy professor who craved the classroom corner, bare-bottomed in knee socks, writing lines until I paddled her into blissful tears. And despite my youth—barely in my mid-thirties, with that fresh-faced glow that belies my command—there’s a surprising surge of clients aching to call me "Mommy". Grown men and women, all poised and powerful in their daily lives, dropping to their knees with pacifiers in mouth, diapers crinkling, begging for my nurturing discipline. It’s endearing, really—that maternal edge I wield like a soft leather crop, blending care with correction. Who knew my youthful energy would make me the ultimate forbidden caregiver?

Let's take a moment to look back at the last few months, after opening the doors of the Facility for the first time. Tell me which scene really resonates with you, dear readers. I'll show you my top ten highlights so far, since opening: 

1. The earlobe-marched sissy who soon found himself over my knee, in full view of the large picture windows. Current chastity streak: 58 days. 

2. Punk princess in the princess room 

3. A stroll in the park with this corporate executive. Current chastity streak: 103 days.

4. Belting in the boudoir with this Brazilian bombshell

 5. International powerhouse CEO with frequent cravings to just escape

6. Couples therapy

7. Broken curfew and a belly full of booze that needed to be cleansed from her system

8. Gamer, cosplayer, e-girl and OF content seller, with shockingly beautiful feet. 

 9. The birching of Beatrice - elected member of Federal politics

10. Gender bending with a cold beer and a hard cock on football Sunday, with this college nose-tackle. Current chastity streak: 63 days.

But enough about the play; let’s talk the personal grind that keeps this dominatrix dialed in. Domme'ing isn't the only thing I do... 

Until my home-gym is built at the Facility, mornings are sacred at the gym in town—five days a week, no excuses. I’m there in sleek leggings and a cropped tank, ponytail high and tight, powering through sets that sculpt me into the force I need to be. Deadlifts for that unyielding grip when I pin a wriggling sub, squats to steady my stance during a long flogging session. Cardio? A heart-pounding run on the treadmill, sweat glistening like the sheen on a well-oiled harness, building stamina so I can outlast even the most endurance-tested client. It’s not vanity; it’s vitality—fueling the fire that lets me command with effortless elegance.

Afternoons pivot to schooling—I take night classes and weekends immersed at Le Cordon Bleu, where I’m honing my skills as a classically trained chef. No aspirations for a bustling restaurant or chef’s whites in a high-pressure kitchen; that’s not my scene. I simply adore the artistry and creativity of it. Plating a delicate foie gras torchon or a towering croquembouche feels like crafting a scene: building layers of flavor, bursts of texture, all designed to elicit gasps of delight. I cook for the joy of it, hosting intimate dinners for close friends (or the occasional favored client post-session), where the moans are over my béarnaise rather than my birch. It’s my creative oasis, balancing the bite of bondage with the bliss of beurre blanc.

On the business front, I’m still hunting for that elusive receptionist—someone with poise under pressure, a knack for discretion, and the ability to field calls about “extended floggings” without batting an eye. Interviews have been entertaining: one applicant with stellar admin skills but eyes like saucers at the intake form’s kink checklist, another too eager, asking if “perks” included playtime. The Facility’s thriving, expansions humming under those handsome contractors’ tools, so I need that right hand pronto—efficient, unflappable, perhaps with a secret submissive streak for those slow days.

And speaking of entanglements, there’s Alexis—my unpredictable spark of chaos. Are we officially dating? Who knows; we don’t bother with labels. We have sex like it’s the friggen Olympics—frequent, fervent, flipping power dynamics with a wink and a whip. 

We’ve been on dates too: candlelit dinners where whispers turn to commands, weekend getaways blending vanilla strolls with hidden harnesses. But she mentions this boyfriend, Robbie, in casual asides—some steady vanilla anchor, I suppose. Doesn’t ruffle my feathers; I’m all for open explorations. Still, I tested the romance waters one sultry week, curiosity getting the better of me after she’d just fucked me senseless from behind. 

Me on all fours, handcuffed, collared and leashed like her devoted pet, that rose gold lock glinting as she thrust deep with her strap-on, my moans echoing off the walls while she yanked the leash taut, riding me to shattering peaks. The intensity was exquisite—her hips slamming home with relentless rhythm, my body arching under her control, every plunge sending waves of pleasure crashing through me. Midway, she paused, her fingers searching the bedding for those sinfully gorgeous black lace panties she’d worn earlier, turning them inside out with a wicked grin. “Open wide, pet,” she purred, stuffing the inner gusset—damp with her arousal—straight into my mouth, the musky, intimate taste flooding my senses as she made me hold them there like a gag, biting down while she resumed fucking me wildly, the fabric muffling my cries into desperate, humiliated whimpers.

Pillow talk followed—me still locked in the collar, wrists cuffed for that lingering helpless thrill, sprawled in a luxurious nest of furs that caressed my sweat-slicked skin like a thousand teasing fingers. Alexis lounged beside me, her fingers lazily playing with my nipples—circling, pinching, twisting just enough to send lazy aftershocks rippling through me. Surrounded by satin sheets rumpled from our frenzy, the air heavy with our mingled scents and the faint musk of leather. “Hey, Lexi,” I purred, nuzzling closer despite the restraints. “Wanna escape for a few days? Quebec City for quaint charm and poutine, Rome for ancient whispers and al dente pasta, Paris—Eiffel by night with champagne? Or, no, wait! Casablanca? Spice markets and sultry sunsets.”

She giggled, that effervescent sound vibrating against my cheek, her touch pausing mid-twirl. “Can’t, babe—federal no-fly list.” Plain as day, delivered with a shrug.

I blinked, shifting as best I could in the cuffs. “Wait, what? Why?”

“Daddy and the Doctor switched up my meds—bad reaction. Flipped out mid-flight, started screaming at passengers about… whatever hallucinations hit.” She waved a hand airily. “Pilot emergency-landed the plane in some shithole, Cleveland, maybe. Boom, grounded forever.” 

Another giggle, light and unburdened, then she hopped up—prancing out of the room on those delicate tiptoes, clad only in sheer black stockings that hugged her legs like a second skin, no other clothing, her pert curves swaying teasingly as she vanished into the hall.

Left me there, collared and cuffed, chuckling softly into the furs. Unpredictable as ever, that one. Boyfriend or not, she’s a keeper in her own wild way—adding spice to my already flavorful life. Until the next session calls, darlings—stay deliciously deviant.

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

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