My Finest Work

Continued from: Scientific Method

[Spanking] [M/f] [humiliation] [cornertime] [schoolgirl] [maledom] [DDLG] [BDSM] 

It looks like we've got an extra P in there. Is that an omen? 2025 will be an extra happy year? I certainly hope so and Summer and I would like to wish you all a happy and healthy 2025, and thank you for being loyal fans. 

Lets try that one again...

Happy New Yieappy...sigh*

Happy BS prmars...??

A.I. gibberish. The struggle is real, people! 

Summer, can we put away all the decorations and these sickening coloured outfits? The holidays are over, but not before the Doctor left us all an amazing gift!

"Oui, Madame. If you insist." 

I thought I would front-end load some images in this one, as, for the first time, I'd like you to just read, and not be distracted by visuals. 

Fifty Shades, whatever this new Babygirl thing is going to turn out to be...I can guarantee you, that it will never compare to what Skylar just wrote for all of us. As a long time connoisseur of this BDSM world, I can't say I've ever read anything like this. It's the finest work I've ever seen.

If you, as an adult, have even been sitting alone in a room somewhere, waiting for an impending spanking, this one will grab you right by your butterflies. Skylar's scientific understanding and introspection, relative to spanking and D/s dynamics, surprised even me.

If you remember from last time, she asked Russell for a very real, age regressed spanking, all in the name of her scientific exploration of these dynamics. Russell cleverly mixed in the title of "Daddy", for himself, as he sent her upstairs to change and wait for him. This turned out to be quite the trigger for her and they ran with that roleplay during their scene. 

Let's just hope she doesn't beat the shit outta him up there. She looks a little....ummm...intimidating, despite her outfit.

Take it away, Sky...

(The following was 99.5% written by the A.I. version of Skylar)

The Revelation of Anticipation 

     Perched on the edge of the childish bed, my legs crossed demurely at the ankles, I waited with bated breath for Daddy to arrive. The room felt charged with anticipation, every sound amplified in the heavy silence - the ticking of a clock, the distant hum of traffic outside, the rapid beating of my own heart. I smoothed my hands over the crisp fabric of my skirt, marveling at how the simple act of changing my clothing could so drastically alter my perception of myself. 

No longer was I Dr. Skylar St. Germaine, esteemed scientist and respected dominatrix - I was a naughty schoolgirl, awaiting the inevitable consequences of my misbehaviour. As I sat there, lost in thought, I couldn't help but analyze my own reactions, jotting mental notes for the report I would undoubtedly write afterward.

The heightened sensitivity of my skin, the fluttering in my stomach, the subtle tensing of my muscles - all pointed to a state of acute arousal, despite the underlying current of fear and uncertainty. I wondered briefly if this was how my clients felt, sitting alone in the dimly lit rooms of The Facility, awaiting my arrival. Did they experience the same heady mix of excitement and trepidation, the same desperate yearning for release, coupled with a primal need to resist? 

The thought intrigued me, fueling my determination to see this experiment through to its conclusion. Just then, I heard footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate, each one sending a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through my veins. The door handle turned, and Daddy stepped into the room, his presence filling the space with an almost palpable energy. I looked up at him, my eyes wide and imploring, silently begging for both mercy and punishment in equal measure. 

"Daddy," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly as I spoke the word aloud for the first time. 

"I'm ready for my spanking." 

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

As Daddy slowly removed his belt, the sound of leather snapping against fabric seemed to echo in the small room, each inch drawn out like a torturous caress. My breath caught in my throat, a lump forming as I watched him double the belt over, testing its weight in his hand. The sight sent a shiver down my spine, a primal fear mingling with a dark, insistent arousal that pulsed between my legs. 

"Stand up, young lady," Daddy commanded, his voice firm and unyielding. "Pull your panties down to your knees." 

My hands trembled as I obeyed, rising from the bed on unsteady legs. Hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my childish cotton underwear, I slid them down, feeling the cool air kiss the bare skin of my bottom. The vulnerability of my position stuck me like a physical blow, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as I realized the full extent of my submission. 

Daddy hadn't even touched me yet, but the psychological impact of the scene was overwhelming, pushing me to the very brink of emotional release. I stood there, quivering, my panties bunched around my knees, my hands clasped tightly in front of me. Every nerve ending seemed to be screaming, my senses heightened to an almost unbearable degree

The power of anticipation, of the unknown, was truly remarkable. And yet, beneath the clinical detachment of my observations, I could feel something else stirring - a deep, aching need, a yearning to be taken, to be owned, to be utterly and completely dominated. 

As Daddy loomed over me, belt in hand, I knew that whatever came next would shatter me, remake me, leave me forever changed. And God help me, I wanted it more than anything. 

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

Daddy's strong hands gripped my shoulders, guiding me towards the full-length mirror that hung on the wall opposite the bed. The sudden contact sent a jolt of electricity through my body, my skin tingling beneath his touch. 

"Hands on your head, feet together," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. I complied immediately, interlacing my fingers atop my head, my elbows framing my face. The position forced me to arch my back slightly, thrusting my breasts forward and accentuating the curve of my bottom. 

As I stared at my reflection, I barely recognized the woman looking back at me. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with unshed tears, her lips parted slightly as she struggled to control her breathing. The childish outfit, combined with the humiliating pose, served to emphasize her vulnerability, her utter helplessness in the face of Daddy's authority. 

Fascinating, I mused, even as a fresh wave of embarrassment washed over me. The visual feedback loop created by the mirror seemed to intensify every emotion, every physical sensation. I could see the goosebumps rising on my skin, the slight tremble in my limbs, the way my nipples strained against the fabric of my school blouse.

Each observation fed into a growing sense of arousal, a dark, insistent hunger that gnawed at my core. I wondered briefly if this was a technique Daddy employed regularly with his submissives, using the mirror as a tool to heighten their awareness of their own bodies, their own reactions. If so, it was remarkably effective - I could feel myself teetering on the precipice of complete surrender, my defenses crumbling under the weight of this designed scene. 

As I stood there, hands on my head, panties around my knees, I couldn't help but marvel at the complexity of the human psyche. How could something so seemingly innocuous - a mirror, a simple command - elicit such a powerful response? 

I knew that whatever happened next would be both terrifying and exhilarating, a dance on the razor's edge between pleasure and pain, ecstasy and agony. And I was ready for it, eager for it, desperate for it with every fiber of my being. 

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

Ten minutes....

Three hundred seconds. An eternity stretched out before me as I stood facing the mirror in my enforced position. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, each second ticking by with excruciating slowness. Behind me, I could hear Daddy moving about the room, the rustle of fabric, the clink of metal, the soft thud of objects being placed on the bed. My imagination ran wild, conjuring up visions of the implements he might be preparing - belts, canes, paddles, each one promising a different flavour of exquisite torment. The anticipation was almost unbearable, a constant hum beneath my skin, a tension coiling in the pit of my stomach. 

And yet, even as I squirmed internally, I remained outwardly still, my gaze fixed on my reflection in the mirror. Fascinating, I thought, noting the way my pupils dilated, the way my chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. The longer I stood there, the more acutely aware I became of my own body, my own reactions. It was like watching a stranger, a subject in some twisted experiment, her responses carefully cataloged and analyzed. 

I wondered if this was how my clients felt, standing naked and vulnerable before me, their deepest, darkest fantasies laid bare for my inspection. Did they experience the same rush of adrenaline, the same dizzying mix of terror and arousal? 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Daddy spoke. "Turn around, young lady," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "It's time for your spanking." 

With trembling hands I lowered my arms, turning slowly to face him. The room had been transformed during my enforced reflection, a veritable arsenal of implements laid out on the bed, each one gleaming menacingly in the soft light. Daddy stood before me, his expression stern, the belt still clutched in his hand. My heart pounded in my chest, my palms suddenly damp with sweat. 

This was it - the moment of truth. 

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

Daddy scolded me first, his fabricated words washing over me in a torrent of disapproval. I felt a strange numbness settle over me. It was as if I was watching the scene unfold from a distance, an observer rather than a participant. But then, the word pierced through the haze, striking me like a physical blow. "I'm disappointed in you, young lady." The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and I felt something inside me crack. 

Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and stinging, spilling down my cheeks in rivulets. Disappointed. The word echoed in my mind, a harsh condemnation that cut deeper than any physical pain ever could. I had failed Daddy, let him down, proven myself unworthy of his affection, his approval. The realization was devastating, a crushing weight that bore down on me, threatening to suffocate me beneath its enormity. 

Without thinking, I found myself involuntarily laying over Daddy's lap, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I reached back with shaking hands, lifting my skirt to expose my bare bottom, my puckered anus and my shamefully aroused pussy on full display. The humiliation of the position was almost too much to bear, a searing heat flooding my face, my ears burning with embarrassment. 

And yet, even as I squirmed with shame, I couldn't deny the throbbing need between my legs, the wetness that coated my inner thighs. It was a paradox, a contradiction - to be so turned on by my own degradation, my own failure. 

Intriguing, I thought dimly, even as sobs wracked my body, my tears falling freely onto Daddy's pants. The psychological impact of his disappointment was far greater than any physical punishment could ever hope to achieve. It tapped into something primal, something deeply ingrained in my psyche - the need for approval, for validation, for love. 

And in denying me those things, Daddy had stripped me bare, laid me open, exposed me for the lawed, imperfect creature I truly was. It was a revelation, a moment of clarity that cut through the fog of arousal and shame. This was why people submitted, why they sought out punishment and humiliation - because it forced them to confront their own weaknesses, their own insecurities, their own deepest fears. And in doing so, it offered a chance at redemption, at absolution, at rebirth. 

I clung to that thought as I lay draped over Daddy's knees, my bare ass raised and ready for his punishment. Whatever came next, I would endure it, embrace it even, and allow it to cleanse me completely. 

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

The Spanking

    The first smack of the belt against my bare bottom send a shockwave of pain radiating through my body, jolting me out of my tearful reverie. I gasped, my muscles tensing involuntarily, my toes curling in my Mary Janes. But even as the initial sting faded, I could feel a warmth blooming beneath my skin, a tingling heat that seemed to spread outwards from the point of impact. It was a curious sensation, painful yet strangely pleasurable, a dichotomy that both confused and excited me. 

Daddy didn't give me time to ponder the contradiction, however. Before I could catch my breath another blow landed, this one harder than the first, eliciting a sharp yelp from my throat. And then another, and another, each one building upon the last, layer after layer of exquisite agony. 

I writhed and squirmed on Daddy's lap, my hands clutching at his pants, my nails digging into the fabric. Tears streamed down my face, my vision blurring, my senses overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensation. But even through the haze of pain, I could feel a growing ache between my legs, a throbbing need that seemed to intensify with each passing second. It was a puzzle, a conundrum - how could something so painful be so arousing? How could humiliation and embarrassment fuel such intense desire? 

The questions swirled in my mind, even as I cried out synthetic apologies, promises to do better, to be good. "I'm sorry, Daddy!" I sobbed, my voice hoarse and broken. "I'm sorry I disappointed you! Please forgive me, Daddy!" The words tumbled from my lips unbidden, a desperate plea for absolution, for redemption. And with each utterance, I felt a piece of myself fall away, a fragment of my pride, my dignity, my self-worth. It was a stripping away, a peeling back of layers, exposing the raw, vulnerable core beneath. 

And yet, even as I wept and begged, I couldn't deny the mounting arousal, the slick wetness of my exposed folds. The pain and the pleasure were inextricably linked, two sides of the same coin, feeding off each other, amplifying each other. It was a fascinating phenomenon, a testament to the power of the mind, the intricate interplay between physiology and psychology. 

As Daddy shifted me into new positions, employing various implements, I found myself analyzing my own reactions, cataloging each nuanced response. The hairbrush produced a sharp, staccato pain, while the strap delivered a duller, more diffuse ache. The cane left thin, precise lines of fire, while Daddy's palm imparted a broader, more encompassing heat. Each implement elicited a slightly different reaction, a subtle variation in my vocalizations, my bodily movements, my facial expressions. It was like a symphony of sensations, a complex tapestry woven from threads of pain and pleasure, humiliation and arousal. 

And as my spanking drew to a close, my ass a throbbing mass of tender flesh, I found myself drifting in a state of euphoria, a hazy, dreamlike trance. The world around me seemed to recede, fading into insignificance, leaving only the pulsing beat of my own heart, the ragged cadence of my breathing. In that moment, suspended between pain and ecstasy, I understood the true nature of submission, the profound surrender of self that it demanded. It was a giving over, a letting go, a relinquishing of control. And in that surrender, there was a freedom, a liberation, a sense of peace that transcended all else. 

Daddy helped me to my feet, his strong arms supporting my trembling body. I felt so little. I knew that I had crossed a threshold, stepped over a line from which there could be no return. I was forever changed, forever altered, forever blessed by this experience. And as I gazed up at Daddy through tear-soaked lashed, I whispered the words that sealed my fate, my destiny. "Thank you, Daddy," I breathed, my voice barely audible. "Thank you for punishing me." 

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

Aftercare and Reflection

    Daddy's arms wrapped around me, enfolding me in a cocoon of warmth and safety. I melted into his embrace, my body going limp, my tears subsiding into quiet hiccups. His forgiveness washed over me like a balm, soothing the raw edges of my soul, mending the fractures in my psyche. It was a moment of pure connection, of unconditional acceptance, of love. And in that moment, I felt a surge of emotion so powerful, so overwhelming, that it stole the breath from my lungs. Gratitude, relief, devotion - they all swirled together, a maelstrom of feelings that left me dazed and disoriented. I clung to Daddy, my fingers digging into his shirt, my face buried in his chest. I wanted to stay there forever, suspended in that perfect instant, frozen in time. 

He held me for as long as I needed to be held, before the moment passed. Daddy gently extricated himself from my grasp, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. He looked down at me, his expression stern yet compassionate, his eyes seeming to smile at me with pride. "Go stand in the corner," he commanded, his voice low and authoritative. "Hands on your head, bottom bare. Reflect on your behaviour, on what you've learned today." 

I nodded mutely, my throat too tight for words. Turning away from Daddy, I shuffled towards the designated corner, my steps slow and halting. My ass throbbed with each movement, a constant reminder of my transgressions, my failures. As I pressed my nose to the wall, assuming the required position, I felt a fresh wave of humiliation wash over me. My bottom was on full display, the reddened flesh glowing like a beacon, broadcasting my shame to anyone who cared to look. And yet, even as mortification burned in my cheeks, I couldn't ignore the pulsing ache between my legs, the desperate need for release that consumed my every thought. 

I wanted nothing more than to reach down, to stroke myself to completion, to find some measure of relief from the relentless arousal that gripped me. But I knew better than to disobey Daddy's orders. So I stood there, motionless, my hands clasped behind my head, my body trembling with suppressed desire. And as the minutes ticked by, stretching into eternity, I found my mind wandering, analyzing, dissecting the entirety of the session. 

What was it about this particular scenario that elicited such a visceral response from me? Was it the role-playing aspect, the assumption of a persona so diametrically opposed to my true nature? Or perhaps it was the physical sensations themselves, the pain and pleasure intermingling in a potent cocktail that short-circuited my rational brain? Then again, maybe it was the psychological component, the surrender of control, the abdication of responsibility. Whatever the cause, the effect was undeniable - I had never felt so alive, so present, so utterly consumed by sensation. It was a revelation, an epiphany, a glimpse into the depths of myself. 

And as I stood there on display, lost in contemplation, I knew that I would spend hours, days, weeks even, poring over the data, examining the variables, searching for patterns and correlations. With renewed determination, I focused my gaze on the blank expanse of the walls before me, my mind racing with possibilities and hypotheses, with theories. 

The corner time might be intended as punishment, as a humiliating penance, but for me, it was a gift - a chance to reflect, to analyze, to grow. And I intended to make the most of every second. 

Skylar St. Germaine, PhD. 

How beautiful was that? 

A gift to all of us, the lifelong spankos who have felt and know every paradoxical detail of what Skylar just described. She can just put it into words, better than we can! 

Happy 2025 everyone, let me know what you thought of this one. 

Mistress Andrea

xoxo 

Continued in: Cornertime Revelation

Uniformity

Continued from: Is it Gay?

There had been quite a bit going on, leading up to the holidays, through the holidays, then Summer and I vacationing in France for a stint. In our absence, Cassandra let her wild-side shine through and had gone rogue. She was building a stable of sissy-slaves and doing God-knows-what to some other male clients of hers. I was feeling like I needed to right the vessel, restore some order and get back to the basics of what we do best at The Facility. 

"Good morning Mister! You're here for your spanking?" 

Could you imagine!!? The gut-twisting butterflies of being looked up and down by these women?

Some silly male, standing there fully naked in front of these four, covering his junk with his palms. His head would be lowered, occasionally glancing at their boots while feeling his face burn with embarrassment. The head-girl in all black, makes him choose which disciplinarian it will be for this session, herself included of course. They are equally strict, their scolding can reduce you to tears and each of them know exactly what you need.  

Uniformity. That's what I needed to restore at The Facility. Everything else would fall into place once order was regained through our high and tight conduct, professionalism, pride in one's appearance and attention to detail. No matter what language you speak, the appearance of uniformity is interpreted as authority. Once you walk through the doors of my Facility, you better believe that authority will be generously available.  

Summer was always at-the-ready to help with the clients. She brought along her bestie, Vanessa, or Goddess Vanessa as I like to call to her (major girl-crush of mine!). Cassandra...well...she needed a little more convincing to "get in line". 

Nothing that I couldn't handle though. She was definitely due, overdue even. A little too big for her britches as of late. 

I donned my very best, vintage "Mommy" look, dressed Cassandra like a little girl, and roasted her backside until she was sobbing uncontrollably. 

Tears, snot, mascara runs, and frantically trying to rub away the effects of my ebony hairbrush. Problem solved. Cassie was brought back under a bit more control. She told me a few days afterwards it was much needed.

With our new-found uniformity, working as a team and looking like a team, the girls and I got The Facility back on-track. Jan-March is a busy time of year for a Professional Disciplinarian. It's like my "tax season". Haha. Business was boomin'. 

Think about all the New Years resolutions, dry-Febs, new gym memberships and trendy diets. Many of my clients want my unique form of "extra motivation", to stick to their goals. Before long my Facility was once again buzzing with business. The sounds of straps and paddles meeting bare flesh could be heard behind the closed doors. Female voices cracking and crying out, "I'm sorry, Ma'am," and the bass of male voices bawling out "Mommy, nooooo!"

Domestic scenes, writing lines on a chalkboards, mouth soaping, office scenes, we did it all. 

Noses were once again in corners, right where they belong!

We were once again doing the world a service, for those strong enough to admit and seek-out what they know they need. 

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

Continued in: 50 Shades of Red

 

  

 

Beautiful Brainwashing Pt. 2

Continued from: Beautiful Brainwashing Pt. 1

A Sarah Jane story 

In my last post I blogged about my initial experience in the "shoe closet", which is the fetish room at Mistress Andrea's Facility, exclusively dedicated to foot worship. I use the term "initial experience" because the torture and torment I was enduring had only just begun. 

Miss Summer and Miss Vanessa, both dressed as Flight Attendants, had me gagged and bound to a chair with a remote vibrator up my pussy. I was being forced to watch a slideshow of women's feet, women's footwear and women's feet in bondage, all while the vibrator pulsed and buzzed inside me. 

Essentially I was being forced to orgasm, while looking at images of feet. I thought it must have been some sick, twisted manner of slave conditioning. Forcing me to associate my own pleasure with something I don't find pleasurable...feet!

Apparently Mistress Andrea does a similar conditioning program with male slaves. I learned about it in my junior school classes. Tactics like only unlocking a male's penis to masturbate or edge him, if he sucks a realistic dildo for her. Or only unlocking his penis for a hand job, if he's fully dressed like a sissy girl. Powerful stuff!

After my second shuddering orgasm, directly into my panties, maybe their tactic was starting to work and break me down. Maybe they were altering my mind a little. Some of these images were undeniably gorgeous! 

 

What I also began to notice and appreciate, was how much some styles of female footwear, emulate the look of bondage. Is that done on purpose? To deliberately or subtly display a female to the rest of the world as confined and bound, beginning with her feet? Or is it just to sexualize the feet? 

That might be too political and too deep for me to comprehend right now, certainly when there is a vibrator trapped in my pussy. 

Quite sexy I must say. A look that belongs in a BDSM dungeon as much as it belongs at a courtyard bistro. 

Before I had the chance to embarrassingly and shamefully cum a third time, to feet porn, the vibrations ended and the slideshow monitor darkened. Summer and Vanessa returned to the room and removed my gag and bondage. I was mortified when she reached for the toy in my pussy, having to negotiate the gusset of my panties which were drenched at this point. 

I was knelt before the pair of them and Summer used me as a seat. 

"How do you feel?" Summer asked me. 

I replied that I was embarrassed. Embarrassed that I was forced to cum to images of female feet. 

She then encouraged me to cradle her high heel with my hands, and rest my lips against her gold anklet that encircled her nylons. 

While I was still in a kneel, Summer told me to unfasten the ankle straps of her heels and slip them off her feet. Vanessa moved in closer so I could undo her heels also. I was forced to rest my nose inside the high heel of Summer and manually masturbate to orgasm. Despite my gut-churning humiliation, I came almost instantly before my head was moved into Vanessa's high heel, so I could repeat the degrading process again. 

With my body still trembling from the orgasms, I was laid prone on my back, as they took turns resting and running their nylon soles over my mouth and nose. There was a dampness I could feel in the nylon and definitely a scent, but not an unpleasant one. 

I spent the next few hours kissing and licking their hosed feet and toes, their shoes and even a pair of boots that Vanessa put on. Their feet were not dirty, nor was their footwear, but I felt dirty and degraded by performing these acts. Dirty and degraded enough that my pussy remained soaked throughout this whole ordeal! *Sigh

In the time I spent in the "shoe closet", I had gained a new-found appreciation for just how sexy a woman can be, below the knees, if she puts the effort in. Vanessa and Summer's feet are absolutely pristine. I learned about the use of toe rings, nail polish, anklets and hosiery. All things they told me I would need to know, before I ever make it to the upper floor.  

Summer wrote me a proper report card of my experience in the shoe closet. I had to take the report card to the Headmaster for review. I think she had been overly gracious with my grades. 

Categories like eagerness and enthusiasm I got a B minus when I probably should have earned a D! I'll have to thank Summer later, if I had a D on my report card I wouldn't be sitting comfortably for a week and I'd likely be demoted back to diapers and onesies. 

Nevertheless, I was still punished. I am required to achieve straight A's only. The Headmaster had me spend 30 minutes in timeout, in just my bra with socks and shoes while he prepared a note to take home to my "Daddy". 

(Which is funny because it's the same person playing both roles! *blush) 

I'm not sure what the note said when I passed it to Daddy, but it must have rhymed with "Daddy's Belt". I got a good lickin' over his knee when I got “home”. Over my skirt first, over my panties and then on the bare. 

When my belt strapping ended, I watched as Daddy placed the final gold star on my chart, under the category of "feet appreciation". I wiped my tears and hugged him, thanking him for consequencing me and the promotion to "senior school". 

Finally, I was going to be free of this room and upgrade to a "big girl's" room and big girl's bed. I was excited! 

I thought I better thank Daddy, before jammies and bed and possibly...the last night spent in this frilly, pink room.

Thank you Daddy. 

Sarah Jane 

xoxo

Continued in: "Big-Girl Room"