Betrayed

Continued from: Why choose BDSM?

"Oh, Mandy," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. Mistress moved a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room, before taking a seat and patting her stocking tops. "You look absolutely adorable. Now come here and get over Mommy's knee. It's time for your spanking, little girl." 

My cheeks burned with shame, as I looked down at the attire I was in, a 45 year old woman, forced into such vulnerable clothing and about to be spanked. The outfit was a tactic, using humiliation as a form of adult discipline, a constant reminder of my utter powerlessness in this place. 

As I shuffled forward in my ridiculous Mary Jane heels, tears were already filling my eyes. With shaking hands, I reached beneath the hem of my absurdly short dress and grasped the waistband of my little girl panties. Slowly, deliberately, I slid them down my thighs until they pooled around my knees, leaving my bare bum exposed and vulnerable. 

As I approached Mistress Andrea, seated regally in the sturdy wooden chair, I couldn't bring myself to meet her gaze. Instead, I focused on the array of implements laid out and ready for me - hairbrushes, a wooden spoon, a female slipper, and a thick leather belt. Each promised a unique brand of pain and degradation, and I knew from experience that Mistress would not hesitate to use them all!

With a final, shuddering sob, I draped myself across her lap, my feet coming off the floor as she adjusted me. I could feel the heat radiating from her body, the subtle rise and fall of her breath, as she prepared to administer my spanking. 

Without warning, it came, a barrage of sharp, stinging smacks with her palm. Mistress settled into a steady rhythm, alternating cheeks as she peppered my bum and thighs. The spanking was not overly severe but it was quite lengthy. She layered me perfectly, hand, leathers, a female slipper, followed by the dreaded hairbrush and wooden paddle. By the time I was paddled, she had removed my dress fully. The repeated impact of my fleshy cheeks, always seemed to create a numbing sensation, the perfect opportunity for Mistress to layer me deeper with the wooden implements, ensuing I'd be feeling and seeing the effects for days to come. 

She finished up with a hand-spanking to even out my colour and allow for that intimate re-connection. As I lay draped across Mistress Andrea's lap, my ass throbbing and raw from the sound spanking, I felt her hand begin to move in slow, soothing circles. Her touch was gentle, almost maternal, as she stroked the inflamed skin of my bum. When her fingers grazed the swollen lips of my pussy, I couldn't help suppress a moan, my hips instinctively arching towards her hand.  

Shame flooded through me at the realization that, even after such a humiliating ordeal, my traitorous pussy still craved her touch. As if sensing my inner turmoil, Mistress lifted me up to sit on her lap and whispered in my ear, her hot breath tickling my neckline. "It's perfectly natural for a grown woman to need discipline sometimes. There's no shame in admitting that you need to be spanked, to be reminded of your place." 

Her words sent a shockwave right to my pussy, equal parts degrading and comforting. How could she make something so utterly humiliating and painful sound almost...normal. As she continued to stroke my fiery bum, her fingers occasionally dipping between my legs to tease my clit, I felt tears welling up in my eyes once more. But this time, they weren't tears of pain or humiliation - they were tears of relief, of gratitude for the release she had granted me. 

"Go ahead and cry if you need to." Mistress encouraged, her hand never ceasing its hypnotic caressing. "Let it all out, sweetheart. Mommy is here for you, Mandy." And with that, the floodgates opened. Sobs wracked my body as I surrendered to the overwhelming emotions coursing through me - shame, guilt, desire, and a strange, twisted sense of belonging. Through it all, Mistress held me close, her strong arms wrapped around my trembling frame as she rocked me gently back and forth.

The fact that I was wearing a ridiculous little girl outfit, my panties pulled down around my ankles and my ass glowing red from a thorough spanking, only added to the perverse sense of comfort I felt. Eventually my tears subsided, I leaned in and pressed my lips against hers, thanking her for spanking me and desperately seeking her approval. Mistress responded eagerly, her tongue slipping past my parted lips to explore the depths of my mouth. 

As we kissed, her hands began to wander, tracing patterns along my thighs that sent shivers of pleasure through my body. When her fingers finally reached the apex of my thighs, I gasped into her mouth, my hips bucking involuntarily as she entered my swollen folds. To my utter mortification, I realized just how wet I was, my arousal coating Mistress' probing digits as she began to finger me. 

"My, my," she purred, breaking the kiss to regard me in a scolding manner. "Look how wet you got during your embarrassing spanking, young lady!" Her words sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over me, and I felt my cheeks burn with shame. How could I possibly explain the twisted desires that lurked within me, the perverse thrill I derived from being punished and degraded like a naughty little girl? 

I could only whimper in response to her scolding, as she withdrew her hand from between my legs. To my horror, she brought her glistening fingers to my lips, pressing them insistently against my mouth. "Open up, young lady," she commanded, her tone becoming firm and strict. "Taste how wet you get from being punished." I obeyed, my tongue swirling around her invading fingers, lapping up every last drop of my shameful juices. 

Just when I thought I couldn't bear any more humiliation, Mistress abruptly withdrew her hand, only to bring it down sharply against my exposed pussy. I yelped in surprise, my hips jerking forward as she delivered another stinging slap to my sensitive folds. "Bad pussy! Bad pussy's don't get to cum," she scolded, punctuating each word with a swift spank to my crotch. 

Before I could even catch my breath, she stood hauled me to my feet, dragging me across the room by my earlobe to the far corner. "Stand here," she ordered, spinning me around to face the walls. "Keep those panties at your knees. I want your naughty bottom on display." 

A grown woman, humiliated and degraded, forced to endure the indignities of a misbehaving brat. I could feel her eyes boring into me from across the room. She lounged on the spanking chair, casually scrolling through her phone, as if my suffering was nothing more than a mild diversion from her daily routine. Every so often she would glance up, her gaze raking over my red bum with a mixture of amusement and disdain. 

"Remember, Mandy," she called out, her voice dripping with maternal sweetness. "No moving, no talking, or you'll find yourself back over my knee for another spanking." 

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

Should I change into something even more Mommy-ish, maybe like this one, remember this outfit? 

And perhaps in the next installment, we can get Mandy the soccer mom, into a nice comfy diaper, what do you think, everyone? 

Mistress Andrea 

xoxo

Continued in: Diapered & Denied

 

Caesar Sunday

Continued from: Teacher's Pet

A Sarah Jane story 

One would think that after such an emasculating and helpless scene for poor Russell, watching Mandy and I in our schoolgirl outfits, completely having at one another, that I would just stow him away in his own shame and humiliation when we got home. 

Quite the opposite actually. We went for dinner. We giggled and laughed as we spoke of the scandalous scene from each other's perspectives. Apart from his caged penis and the subject matter of the dinner conversation, we would appear as just another normal couple on a date night. 

I think I will get a cage though, for the end of my bed, especially if Mandy comes to visit and she and I want to play uninterrupted. And for other scenes and sessions at home, it'll be good for Russell to be shackled and just idle for me, waiting to be used at my whim. Perhaps one of those collapsible crates I can store under my bed until needed? And a few sturdy padlocks...hmm.

Anyway, yes...that was Saturday afternoon with Mandy, then a Saturday night dinner with just Russell and I. It was also the eve of our first maintenance Sunday with ME in charge. He got the wooden spoon over my knee as a punishment, during this first week of our FLR. Then he got a soothing spanking and slippering over "Mommy's" knee at bedtime, a little later in the week. But this would be our first Sunday maintenance spanking. The first ritual to define all future Sunday's in our FLR, the pressure was on to deliver.

From my own experience on the receiving end, I knew I had to properly layer him, that the spanking should be long rather than hard, but enough of an impact that he would be feeling it for a few days. I knew implement selection was important, having been taught at the Facility to always try for hand, leathers, woods, hand, in that order, and to use a variety of positions and furniture to really draw this session out. I was more than ready.  

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

Sundays were always special in our household when it was me who was receiving the spanking - it marked the end of one week and the beginning of another, a perfect time for reflection, reconnection and of course, weekly discipline. This particular Sunday was momentous, as it would be our first official maintenance spanking since formalizing our FLR contract. 

Throughout the day, I could sense Russell's growing anticipation and nervous energy, as he did not know when it was coming, this was by design. He was acutely aware he would be getting a spanking today, he just didn't know when and I intended to keep it that way.

We went about our usual Sunday routines - a leisurely brunch, some chores around the house, a walk in the park. But there was an undercurrent of tension, a delicious sense of inevitability hanging in the air.

As the day wore on, I deliberately avoided mentioning the impending spanking, watching with amusement as Russell grew increasingly fidgety and distracted. I knew his mind was consumed with thoughts of what was to come - the exposure, the vulnerability and a very lengthy trip over my knee.

After a satisfying dinner, I finally broke the silence. "It's time, Russell," I said softly, yet firmly, using his full name like a mother would call her misbehaved son. "Upstairs to the spanking room, please. Undress completely and wait for me in the corner, nose to the wall." Russell's breath caught slightly, but he obeyed without hesitation, squeaking out a "yes, Ma'am", before making his way upstairs. 

Caesar has spoken! 

I gave Russell ample time to prepare himself, both physically and mentally, allowing him to marinate in anticipation for a full twenty minutes in the corner. When I decided it was time to make my entrance, I slipped off my casual flats and stepped into a pair of shiny, nude patent heels, relishing the click of the stilettos against our hardwood floors as I ascended the stairs. The heels, paired with my form-fitting jeans and nude pantyhose underneath, created a striking union of modern maternal authority and feminine allure. 

My outfit could definitely be “Mommy” for this session, but I was going with the seriousness of “Ma’am” tonight. 

As I entered the upstairs office, the sight of Russell standing obediently in the corner, fully exposed and vulnerable, sent a thrill through me. I took a moment to neatly arrange some implements on the desk, before pulling the straight-backed chair into the center of the room. Maintenance is not the time nor place for crops, floggers or whips. My implement selection was domestically oriented, hairbrushes, rulers, spatulas and spoons, with a few leather paddles and straps from the impact play realm of kink. 

I made my way to the chair, sinking into its firm embrace with a satisfied sigh. I pressed my knees together to create a sturdy base, as my jeans rode up on my ankles, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of my delicate, hosed ankles.

"Come here, young man," I purred, patting my lap invitingly. Russell turned from the corner, his eyes downcast as he approached and whispered out an embarrassed, about to be spanked as an adult, “yes, Ma’am.” I guided him gently over my knees, positioning his body so that his caged cock rested snugly between my denim-clad thighs. 

"You know this is for your own good, huni, I know you need this." I cooed to him in maternal fashion as he settled over my lap. I began spanking him with a steady rhythm of firm swats, using only my palm. I took my time, allowing the warmth to build gradually across his bare bottom. I didn't say much during this warm-up phase, allowing each smack to echo through the room as he squirmed lightly. 

I would alternate cheeks, making sure to pay some attention to his upper thighs. My form was perfect, bringing my hand high above my head before delivering each smack. I’d do a volley of twelve hard ones, then back right off to twenty-five light ones, ensuring I was colouring the entire area.

As Russell's skin began to take on a delightful rosy hue, I reached for the first of several leather paddles I had laid out earlier. The supple hide smelled wonderful and it felt weighty in my grip, as I brought it down sharply against his already tender cheeks. Again, I cycled between short bursts of hard, followed by longer and lighter, rhythmic volleys of soft to moderate strokes. 

Towards the end of his warm-up phase, I asked him to surrender his arm to me, which I pinned behind his back. I did some gentle rubbing and cupping of his bum, like being wrapped in a warm blanket, then really let him have it with my palm, like being plunged into an ice bath. This rollercoaster technique seemed to add another layer, and underscore his helplessness and vulnerable state. 

After several sets like this, I decided it was time to move to the next phase of his discipline. Rising from the chair gracefully, I took Russell's hand in mine and led him from the office, into the bedroom.

In the center of the floor, I had positioned the ottoman bench, a plump, inviting pillow at the ready, to bolster his hips. 

I guided Russell to stand beside it, then pointed firmly at the cushioned surface. "Over you go, huni," I instructed, my voice a sultry mix of authority and affection. "Pillow under your hips, please." Russell complied without hesitation, draping his well-warmed bottom over the soft mound, presenting his bum beautifully for the continuation of his maintenance. 

With Russell positioned obediently over the ottoman, I took a moment to admire the view. His reddened bum, already bearing some deep colour, looked absolutely delectable, lifted and presented before me. For dramatic effect, I closed the bedroom door with a soft click, as if to shield curious ears downstairs or in another room, from what was about to occur.

Standing tall in my heels, I could feel the female dominance coursing through me, reminding my throbbing pussy that this was definitely the role for me. I reached for my belt, slowly drawing the leather through the loops of my jeans. The metallic jingle of the buckle filled the air, a precursor to the symphony of sensations I was about to conduct. 

Doubling the belt over in my hands, I savoured the weight and suppleness of the leather, smoothing it in my palm to prepare it - soon it shall be dancing across Russell's bare bum.

With the belt firmly in hand, I stepped closer to Russell, trailing my fingernails over his sit spots. "Twenty-six, young man," I murmured, my voice low and commanding. "You will count each one aloud and thank me." 

Without further warning, I drew my arm back and delivered the first searing stroke, the leather cracking against his skin with a resounding snap. Again, this wasn't a punishment strapping, the strokes were measured, not severe. 

"One, thank you, Ma'am!" Russell breathed out. I paused only briefly before delivering the second lash, and then the third, each stroke eliciting a gasp and a dutiful count from my devoted submissive. By thirteen, I switched sides of the ottoman, to ensure the strapping would be evenly distributed. I watched with satisfaction as Russell's bottom bloomed an angrier shade of crimson with each impact.

I deepened the whole experience with some wooden hairbrush, over my knee, and concluded with my palm, the most intimate and reconnecting form of OTK.  

By this point, as the spanking was starting to become challenging for Russell, I started using more dialog, telling him that it's okay to need this, it's alright if he needed to cry. The tears never came this time, but I wanted to make sure he knew it was alright, if he needed to. This is what Sunday maintenance was all about, to empty his cup that could be full or filling. 

I kept him over my knee and wrapped my arm possessively around his waist, a move that would certainly elicit feelings of helplessness within him. Holding him firmly, I applied some pink baby lotion to his throbbing bottom, in soothing, maternal fashion. "You did very well, Russell," I cooed to him, "your spanking is over now." 

He shifted onto his knees before me, crouching low to kiss each of my high heels, before I ushered him back up and nuzzled him into my breasts. 

"Thank you, Ma'am," he mewled out softly, his voice trembling with vulnerability. 

I helped Russell to his feet, steadying him as he found his balance. Pointing to the corner of the bedroom, I instructed, "nose to the corner, please. Some time to reflect on this Sunday and every Sunday that will follow. "We'll do," I hummed to myself in mock, internal debate. "Hmmm...twenty-five minutes today, young man."

Russell moved obediently to his designated spot, the vivid redness of his freshly spanked bottom on full, humbling display. 

As he settled into his corner, I couldn't help but admire the sight of him - naked, vulnerable, and beautifully marked by my female dominance. I set the timer on my phone for twenty-five minutes, the digital numbers glowing brightly as they began their countdown. 

I kicked off my high heels and climbed onto our king-sized bed, propping myself up against the headboard with and sighing in contentment. Reaching for my tablet, I settled into read more of Miss Julie's e-books, occasionally glancing up to monitor my submissive's posture and demeanor. I felt like an absolute Goddess, I was loving everything about this moment!

Sarah Jane 💟

(If you don't know who Miss Julie is or haven't read her e-books, I strongly recommend that you do)

Strict Julie Spanked  

A link to her blog is above. 

Links to her amazing e-books are in her menu on the blog.

Continued in: Ma'am to Mistress

   

 

 

 

Country Roads, Take me Home

Continued from: Tara Gregory: Revelations

It would seem that naughty little tart, Tara Gregory, has been completely stealing my thunder with her step-Daddy stories and using A.I. to eclipse my original works. 

Well, let me get my eclipse glasses on here, sweetheart. Two can play at this game! 

*****

The phone on my desk buzzes, interrupting my morning yoga. I take a deep exhale before answering, my voice cool and collected, ready to address whatever request the day brings.

"Good morning, this is Mistress Andrea speaking." On the line, I hear the familiar voice of Cassandra, my ever-efficient receptionist. "Nancy called, Ma'am. She has requested an appointment for the woodshed, the usual story with her, right, a good whuppin from "Daddy"...shall I confirm?"

With a satisfied smile, I nod, already envisioning the scene. "Yes, Cassie, please schedule her in for tomorrow afternoon. And remind her to bring the necessary outfit. 

As I hang up the phone, I rise from my pose and walk over to the window, gazing down at the ominous woodshed in the back garden. The sunlight filters through the trees, casting dappled patterns across the mossy ground. Tomorrow, my beloved client, Nancy, will be marched out to the shed in shame, dressed in her demure, county-girl attire. A simple gingham dress and socks with sandals, to truly tap into her age regression desires. As usual, I'll be playing the role of her farm-hardened "Daddy". 

The next day, the appointment hour arrives. Dressed in her usual Sims outfit, Nancy strides sheepishly towards the steps of my home. 

I hadn't changed into my role yet. I usually do a more therapeutic and professional consultation with her before we begin, to establish her needs and the reasons she is harbouring for wanting a trip to the strict and unforgiving woodshed. 

It had been a few months since I'd seen Nancy, so after greeting her warmly, we had some tea together and I took a little extra time to make her feel at ease, despite her inevitable fate.

When it was time, I pointed to the corner of the room. Nancy's face was stricken with embarrassment and was about to lift her skirt and lower her panties but I stopped her. Nancy is on the wrong side of 50, she has a successful career and adult children. Although naked cornertime and bare-bottomed cornertime has its time and place, sometimes it can be equally humiliating for an adult woman, to stand and face the walls fully dressed, in her adult attire.

I loosely kept an eye on her for the next 25 minutes, while I changed and got into character. Rather than "marching her" out to the shed as I usually do, this time I kindly asked her to change, do her hair properly and meet "Daddy" outside. 

This should be deliciously frightening for her, when she sees me waiting like this. And yes, I am wearing that belt for a reason! 

Pretty soon, I hear the sound of her little patent dress-sandals, crushing the pebble walk-way. Nancy walks nervously toward the woodshed, her sundress fluttering in the soft breeze, a vision of innocence and submission. 

I can't help but admire her determination to explore this side of herself. As she approaches, she lowers her eyes in respect, hands clasped tightly in front of her. 

"I'm here for my whuppin', Daddy." She sobs out, as tears pool into her eyes. 

"Nancy," I greet her sternly, taking her trembling hands in mine. "Please remove your dress right here, and place it on the straw bale, then in you go." 

Her palms instinctively clutched her bottom cheeks, clad in little cotton panties adorned with tiny pink flowers, the style a little girl would wear.

Stepping into the dimply lit woodshed, I took a moment to appreciate the ambiance. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and aged timber, lending an organic quality to the space. Cobwebs lace the corners of the ceiling, and shafts of golden light pierce the darkness through the gaps in the weathered planks. My heeled boots echo on the uneven floorboards as I lead Nancy inside. 

As I close the door behind us, the soft thud resonates in the silence, amplifying Nancy's apprehension. She looks around at the various implements hanging on the walls - straps, paddles, canes and whips - each with its unique purpose and effect. My gaze sweeps over her petite frame, noting how her braided pigtails contrast sharply with the harsh reality of her impending punishment. Her hands are clenched tightly, knuckles white, as she tried to suppress her anxiety. 

Her breath comes in short gasps as I guide her towards the sturdy oak pillory positioned in the centre of the shed. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, but then lowers her neck and wrists into the crescents, bending over and presenting her pristine bottom for correction. 

I close and secure the top portion of the pillory, applying a brass padlock to the hinged clasp. I move behind her, eyeing her exposed bottom appreciatively. Her round cheeks are milky white and unblemished, save for the goosebumps that have risen in anticipation. I run a hand along the arched expanse of her back, feeling her muscles tense beneath my touch. "You know why you're here, don't you, young lady?" My warm breath and frim touch sends shivers down her spine. 

Nodding and weeping, Nancy confirms her awareness of the awaiting punishment. I pat her gently, reassuringly. "Good girl. You know this is for your own good, honey." 

Reaching for my heavy leather belt, I jingle the buckle free and slide it slowly through the loops of my jeans, the sound seemingly amplified in the quiet woodshed. I double it over, testing its weight in my hand before resting it against her vulnerable backside, allowing her to feel its presence. 

With one final look at my target, I raise the belt high above my shoulder. Time seems to slow as it arcs through the air, landing with a resounding crack against the seat of her panties. Nancy's entire body jolts, a strangled cry escaping her lips - the symphony of discipline and surrender. I watch intently as the first welt rises, a stark line marring her perfect complexion, partially obstructed by the cotton veil of her panties which were offering modesty but little protection. 

I instructed Nancy to count each stroke of the belt aloud, teaching her the value of humility and obedience. With every impact, her cries grow louder, her apologies more fervent. 

Twenty lashes with her panties up and twenty lashes with her panties down. It was a thorough and exhaustive strapping for her. Her bottom is a sight to behold, a beautiful canvass of welts, red stripes and some bruising. 

Like an artist adding the final touches, I used my hand to try and blend out her colour and spread the welting more evenly. 

Once Nancy was released from the pillory, I took her outside the shed as-IS! I took her by the bicep as she used her free arm to wipe her tears and snot, before I led her silently down the pebble path and into the main house. 

I lead her to the designated corner of my living room - nose pressed to the wall and hands on her head. Her reddened bottom points toward the centre of the room, a visual testament to her submission and vulnerability. 

"One hour, young lady!" I declare sternly, listening to her whimper in response to my harsh sentence. 

I sat down and played on my phone after setting her timer, keeping a close watch on this adult woman in my living room corner. She remained motionless, save for the occasional hitching of her chest when she resumed her sobbing. I can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at her absolute submission, knowing that I am providing her with the escape that she needs. 

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

Continued in: Tara Gregory: Anal Virginity