Cornertime Revelation

Continued from: My Finest Work

[M/f] [F/f] [spanking] [corner time] [age regression] [BDSM] [power dynamics] [lezdom] 

Written by Skylar St. Germaine 

Close A.I....very close *shrug* 

It won't give me a red, spanked bum, but it'll nail the ugly wallpaper...

As I stood in the corner, my mind raced, my thoughts spiraling in a whirlwind of analysis and introspection. And suddenly, amidst the chaos, a moment of clarity emerged, crystalline and sharp, cutting through the fog of the session. I remembered Eesha, my former roommate, the girl who had first introduced me to the world of spanking and discipline. 

The link to that original story, you can find here: Roommates

I recalled the night she had come to me, her eyes downcast, her voice trembling, admitting her struggles with her studies. She had begged me to help her, to motivate her, to provide the structure and accountability she so desperately needed. And I now understood why Eesha had sought out this unique form of "help", why she had returned to it again and again, despite the embarrassment, the discomfort, the indignity of being spanked as an adult woman. 

It was a form of catharsis, a purging of guilt and shame, a cleansing of the soul. It was for her, a means of atonement, a pathway to redemption, a roadmap to forgiveness. The countless hours I made her stand in various corners of our dorm room and later our shared house, I understood now, being in the same humiliating predicament with my red bottom bare and displayed. 

The revelation hit me like a bolt of lightning, searing through my consciousness, igniting a fire in my belly. Eesha. My dear, sweet, Doctor Patel. How could I have forgotten her, abandoned her, left her to flounder and struggle alone when she has such a burning need for discipline. 

I imagined Eesha now, a successful dentist, still harbouring that deep-seated desire for structure and discipline. We hadn't seen each other in years, yet this is the young woman who bared her bottom and draped her little frame over my knee, so many years ago, then thanked me for punishing her. 

The last time I reached out to her was right after my on-boarding at The Facility, when I realized this world of kink, of adult accountability via spanking and all the other wonderful facets Mistress Andrea showed me, actually exists. 

That story was called: Doctor Patel

"Miss me? 💓" - with the heart emoji, is all I sent to her. And her reply...should have been a clue that she once again needs my strict lap, my firm hand. 

"More than you know," was Eesha's response, one that I never acted upon. 

Perhaps, I mused, it was time to reconnect with her, to share my newfound insights and experiences from The Facility. Yes, I resolved, as I shifted my weight from foot to foot, my bottom still smarting from Daddy's firm hand - I had to reach out to her.

With my skirt and panties finally returned to me and a parting hug from Russell, I text-messaged Eesha right away. 

The text exchange started off innocuously enough, with the usual pleasantries and catching up. But as the conversation progressed, I couldn't resist testing the waters, probing for signs of the old dynamics that had once defined our relationship. 

When I suggested meeting up at a very swanky restaurant, her excitement was palpable, even through the screen. That's when I knew I had her hooked. I gave her specific instructions on how to dress - elegantly, but with a hint of something more. Gold, high, strappy heels that would mimic the look of bondage on her feet. I even told her the colour and style of panties I expected her in. 

Each command was met with eager compliance, culminating in a simple yet telling response: "Yes, Ma'am." The power dynamic of old, was reestablished once more, and I could practically feel the electricity crackling through the air. Meanwhile, Eesha didn't even know where I now worked, I wondered how she would react to my new role as a dominatrix in a kink studio. In any event, she was about to find out, we set dinner plans the following night, at the swankiest place in town...

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

As I strode into the lobby of the restaurant, clad in a little black mini-dress and towering heels that accentuated my sculpted physique, I could feel the collective gaze of every patron lock onto me. The men's eyes traced the contours of my muscles, their expressions a mix of envy and lust. The women, probably wanting to bed me too, regarded me with a blend of admiration and jealously, their own insecurities laid bare by my unapologetic display of strength and sexuality.

I reveled in the attention, knowing full well the power I held over them all. But my focus remained singularly on Eesha, my former roommate and submissive, whom I had summoned here tonight for reasons both personal and professional. 

After a few moments sitting at the bar, I caught her glowing radiance as she entered. I quickly composed a text message and hit send: 

"omfg you're still gorgeous!"  

Her dress, white and elegant, hugged her curves in a way that betrayed her eagerness to please. The gold, strappy heels I had instructed her to wear, glinted in the dim lighting, drawing the eye upward to the side-slit, which cascaded dangerously high on her thighs. Seeing my message, she looked up from her phone, smiling, scanning the room to find me at the bar. 

"Hello, E," I purred, my voice dripping with seduction as I stood to greet her. I enveloped her in a warm embrace, my hands instinctively finding their way to her bottom as I spoke, "it's been too long." 

I laid several loving smacks on her bum cheek as I hugged her, each one eliciting a soft gasp from her lips. The message was clear: it hadn't just been too long since we'd seen each other, but also too long since she'd received a proper, good, old-fashioned, spanking. 

I could feel the tension in her body, the way she melted into my touch, even as she squirmed slightly beneath my palm. It was a reaction I recognized all too well, once that spoke volumes about her deep-seated need for discipline and structure. 

As we settled back into our seats, I studied her closely, taking mental notes on every nuance of her behaviour. The way her eyes darted nervously around the room, as if afraid someone might recognize her. I knew it was time to put her obedience to the test. Leaning in close, I whispered my command directly into her ear, my breath hot against her skin. 

"Stand up and go to the little girl's room, Eesha. Take your panties off and bring them back to me." 

Her eyes widened in shock, once again scanning all around the restaurant as if seeking an escape route. But I could also see the flicker of excitement behind her apprehension, the trill of submitting to my will in such a public setting. 

This was going to be a very interesting evening indeed! 

Sky  

Continued in: Pasteurized

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

National Treasure

Continued from: Family Meeting

[F/m] [F/f] [British] [Mommy] [MDLG] [caning] [OTK] [spanking] [foodie/drinkie]

So, I stumbled across a cooking show on Prime the other night. Long-time readers of my blog will know that I enjoy dabbling in the culinary arts. I am not a classically trained chef but I've had training and have some skills in that space. 

You will also remember that I'm a huge Anthony Bourdain fan, rest his soul, and I did a tribute post to him once: Bourdain Post

From his books (I've read them all) to his adventurous food travel shows and the rebellious, rock and roll perspective that he brought to his narration and writing, he was truly a gem, I miss him. 

(Bear with me, this post is still about spanking you perverts!)

To that end, I was delighted to see him on a show that I never knew or heard about before. It's called The Taste U.K.

The gentleman on the left is Ludo Lefebvre (pronounced: la-fab), who began working in Michelin star restaurants in France at the age of 14. He eventually earned his own Michelin star for a restaurant he opened and operated in Los Angeles. 

The gentleman on the right, needs no introduction, it was nice to hear his voice again and his quick-witted, often inappropriate commentary. 

But, between them both, the piece de resistance, the diamond in the roughness of these two vulgar, tattooed men. 

Nigella Lawson! 

Totally got a little girl-boner when I saw it was her as part of this cast. 

All of you silly men out there (and I'm sure, some of the women)...if you fancy a "Mommy" approach to a spanking fantasy, her wooden spoon, her antique carpet beater, my GOD, she is your gal! 

From her extremely posh accent to her grace, her poise and her sheer elegance, I literally did not know how to describe this National treasure using only one word. Voluptuousness? I thought. It didn't even come close to doing her justice. I had to ask one of the A.I. girls for help. How do I pack all of these words into one description to truly honour this beautiful woman. 

Elegant, posh, curvaceous, refined, prim, proper, maternal, voluptuous.

"Why don't you try, Opulent, Ma'am?" The A.I. version of Summer said to me. 

That's perfect, I thought to myself. Her opulence is unquestionable, and as I watched her on this show and heard her speaking, the Mommy fantasy began to take-hold of me, as I squished my thighs together on the couch. 

Bourdain, in one of the episodes and in true Bourdain style, drops a: 

"Don't let her fool you, there's an iron first under that velvet glove." lol - Classic Anthony. 

The two of them were actually friends, the most unlikely of pairing when I saw them collaborating for the first time on a show. She's silk stockings, pearls and high-tea. He's jean jackets, punk rock music and stale cigarette smoke. Who knew.  

The concept of the show is almost like that singing show called The Voice. Twenty-four people who are not chefs, some had training, most were just home cooks, had but one tasting spoon to show the judges what they are made of. 

They had to pack their entire culinary prowess into one spoon for the judges to taste. Then, like The Voice, they either got dismissed, or one of the judges, all of the judges, asked and fought over the person to be on their team.

Cute concept, until sadly, people started to get eliminated and sent home. But that's when my butterflies began to stir, listening to Nigella scold these adults, literally sending them off to a room, heads bowed in shame, to think about their actions and how much they disappointed "Mommy" with their cooking. Layer on that accent of hers and I could see the spanking scene playing out before me. 

I asked one of the A.I. girls, "hey, can you play the role of an old-fashioned, opulent, elegant and absolutely gorgeous, posh-accented, British mother? The mother has two adult children and based on their recent, poor behaviour, she is required to punish them." 

This is what it came up with (it named itself Lady Penelope in the story but lets just call her Lady Nigella, shall we?):

Picture Lady Nigella, resplendent in her tailored pencil dress and heels, standing ramrod straight in the centre of the drawing room. Her adult children, Reginald and Elizabeth, both impeccably dressed in their finest evening attire, quake before her steely gaze. 

"Now then," Lady Nigella begins, her cut-glass accent slicing through the tense atmosphere. "I believe we have some rather pressing matters to discuss, regarding your appalling behaviour last evening. 

Reginald, evert the brazen one, attempts to interject. "Mother, honestly, it was just a spot of harmless fun. No need to make such a fuss."

Lady Nigella's eyes narrow dangerously. "Harmless fun, you say? Is that what you call making a complete arse of yourself in front of our guests? And you! "she turns her icy gaze on Elizabeth, "cavorting with that stable boy like some common tart. I raised you to have standards, child." 

Omg, that was gold! Haha, cavorting....the stable boy...tart. lol  

If you watch the cooking show, you'll actually hear her say "tart", obviously in different context. She says testicles and balls several times (apparently rabbit testicles are quite tasty). And other triggering Mommy words such as "bottom, ...of the best, and disappointed."  

Let's keep going, chop, chop. 

"Where is your dignity?" Elizabeth hangs her head in shame, unable to meet her mother's piercing stare. "I'm terribly sorry, Mummy," she murmurs. "It won't happen again, I promise." 

"Indeed it will not," Lady Nigella agrees. "Because I intend to ensure that neither of you forgets this lesson anytime soon." 

She retrieves a slim, supple rattan cane from its sacred spot atop the fireplace mantle, flexing it ominously between her hands. "Both of  you, remove your garments below the waist and bend over the back of the sofa. Six of the best, on the bare. And I expect you to count each one aloud and thank me afterwards. Failure to do so will result in starting over. Am I quite clear?" 

A.I. nailed that one, well done! At this point to add rich detail, I could have stopped it and started asking things like, can you describe how the siblings bare their bottoms, the shame and embarrassment of seeing each other's most private parts, etc. Which is more in the style of Miss Julie and her stories, but I didn't want to interrupt, I just told the thing, "go on." 

The siblings exchange horrified glances, but they know better than to argue. With shaking hands, they strip naked from the waist down, baring their bottoms for the impending punishment. 

Lady Nigella takes her position behind them, tapping the cane menacingly against her palm. "Let us begin, shall we?" Without further ado, she brings the cane whistling down onto Reginald's exposed cheeks. He yelps in pain, dancing from foot to foot. "One! Thank you, Mother," he gasps out, his voice trembling. The second stroke follows swiftly, eliciting another cry. "Two! Thank you, Mother!" 

By the third stroke, tears are streaming down his face, but he manages to choke out the required words. Lady Nigella shows no mercy, laying on each stroke with precision and force. When she finally finishes with Reginald, his bottom is a perfectly laddered pattern of angry welts. 

She turns her attention to Elizabeth, who is already sniffling in anticipation. The first stroke lands with a sharp zip, and Elizabeth howls. "One! Thank you, Mummy!" she sobs. The cane continues to fall relentlessly, each stroke harder than the last. Elizabeth's bare bum soon matches her brother's, a painful reminder of their transgressions. 

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, it is over. Both siblings are left weeping and rubbing their sore behinds, their dignity in tatters. Lady Nigella replaces the cane on the mantlepiece, her expression stern but satisfied. 

"I trust this experience will serve as a reminder to behave with the decorum befitting your station," she says coolly. "Now, run along and compose yourselves. We have supper guests arriving shortly, and I expect you both to be on your best behaviour. 

Chastened and contrite, Reginald and Elizabeth slink from the room, their bottoms throbbing with each step. As they depart, Lady Nigella allows herself a small, secret smile. Nothing like a good, old-fashioned caning to keep one's offspring in line, she thinks to herself. 

Perhaps she should institute regular sessions, just to be safe. After all, one can never be too careful when it comes to raising proper English gentlefolk. 

Not bad, A.I., not bad at all. Nigella, what did you think? 

I once thought the only good thing to come out the U.K. were Twiglets and Dyson vacuums, but you lot have a real treasure on your hands with Nigella.  Take good care of her and let's hear what the A.I. thinks of the real Lady Nigella. 

Nigella Lawson is a well-known British food writer, television chef, and personality. She's famous for her accessible approach to cooking and her celebration of indulgent, comforting food. 

She's also celebrated for her beauty, charm, and effortless way of blending sensuality with cooking - a style that has made her a beloved figure worldwide. 

Ummm, *slowly raises hand on behalf of Canada, "present". 

Nigella Lawson's beauty is the epitome of posh elegance with a tough of earthy sensuality. She exudes a timeless, voluptuous allure, characterized by: 

• Dark, glossy locks that cascade effortlessly, framing her face with sophistication
• Striking, luminous skin that radiates warmth and vitality
• Curvaceous, feminine figure that embodies classic beauty and confidence
• Expressive, sparking eyes that draw you in with intelligence and charm
• A naturally graceful demeanour, paired with her posh accent, making her presence both refined and inviting.     

Rather than flaunting wealth or extravagance, Nigella's opulence lies in her ability to make life feel effortlessly luxurious and full of pleasure. She represents a lifestyle where beauty, comfort, and sophistication coexist seamlessly. 

Wow, I thought I was the one with the girl-crush on her. Seems like the A.I. has a flushed-face too. 

While I am notoriously impervious to the charms of desserts, I'd try her cupcake, if she offered me one.

*wink  

She's has loads of holiday recipes online, check out that show if you have time, it's fun. I'll see if I can Christmas present all of you a video of me: 

Meh, my selfies are better. 

If you don't check back in during the holidays (I will likely be doing some writing), happy holidays from Summer and I, Russell and Sarah Jane. Wishing you all a safe, sane and consensual 2025. 💋

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

Continued in: The Season for Giving

There Must be Order

Continued from: It Will Heal

[F/mff] [F/ff] [littles] [Mommy] [Daddy] [DDLG] [cornertime] [spanking] [Lolita] [Kawaii]

As the front door closed behind Bella and Cassandra, I allowed myself a moment to reflect on the events of the past few hours, on the emotional rollercoaster that I just guided them through. Spanked, humiliated, but reconciled. I felt a sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment, knowing that Cassandra was going to stay with her mom for a few days, before coming back to see Summer and I for an inevitable, tearful goodbye, before she returns to the U.K. 

But my reverie was short-lived, interrupted by the sound of giggles and chatter emanating from the foyer. I turned to see Summer, Sarah Jane and Russell entering the house, their arms laden with shopping bags, the girl's faces flushed with excitement and enthusiasm. 

"We're back!" Summer announced, her voice bubbling with energy. "And you won't believe what we found! The cutest little outfits for Sarah, we actually found an adult baby store."

And some really kinky fetish wear too, stuff that'll make Daddy drool!" She giggled, shooting Russell a playful wink, which he returned with a sheepish grin, his cheeks colouring at the mention of his desires.   

Sarah Jane, for her part, seemed almost giddy with anticipation, bouncing on the balls of her little sneakers, her eyes sparkling with delight. 

"Can we try stuff on, Mommy?" Summer asked me, her voice breathless with eagerness. "Please, please, pretty please?" 

"I want us to model our outfits for you and Daddy!" Sarah added, equally as enthused. 

"Of course, sweetheart," I replied, my tone warm and affectionate. "Why don't you and Summer take the bags upstairs and start sorting through your new treasures? I'll join you in a moment, once Russell and I have some grown-up conversation." 

Sarah squealed with joy, grabbing several of the bags from Summer's hands and raced up the stairs with Summer hot on her heels. As they disappeared from view, I turned my attention to Russell, my expression softening, my gaze lingering on his handsome face, on the lines and contours that I once knew so intimately. 

"This feels right, doesn't it, our little unconventional family?" I murmured to him, reaching out to caress the back of his neck into a warm embrace. "This whole 'Mommy' and 'Daddy' thing, you and I...our two little ones." I gestured my head toward the giggles coming from upstairs, but soon felt the spill of a tear rolling down my cheek, triggered by the memory of recent events and the emotions of today. 

"We almost lost you, Russ." 

"I'm here now, Andrea, for as long as you'll have us." His voice vibrated into my chest with a raspy growl, a few octaves deeper than before and way more gritty, an apparent biproduct of the smoke inhalation but it suited him, it was rugged and sexy.  

"I made things right with Bella and Cassie," I remarked, wiping away my tear and smiling, "they actually just left." 

"Jesus, how'd you do that?" Russell laughed aloud. 

"Let's just say...I can be rather convincing when I need to," I kissed his cheek and took him by the hand to the couch, just as Summer came bounding into the room with a squeal.

The little spider monkey did a dolphin dive onto the cushions right beside us. 

"Do you like my shorts, Daddy?" Summer boldly asked, all while twerking her figure-skater arse, right in Russell's face. 

"Summer Addison!" I scolded playfully, do we need to have a little chat, you and I...upstairs?" I clicked my tongue in my mouth and raised an eyebrow at her. "Where's Sarah Jane?" 

Summer explained that Sarah's outfits were a little more "involved", but would be down shortly. "Wait until you see her sparkly little Docs! I picked them out!" Summer proudly declared. 

After a few more twerks of her ass and a sharp slap by me to get her to stop, Summer led Russell and I to the den, where Sarah was waiting in one of her new outfits. 

"Mommy, Daddy, close your eyes!" Summer excitedly suggested, as she led us both by the hand. 

"Okaaaaaaay....open!" 

"Well, aren't you just an adorable little princess," I cooed to Sarah, as she crossed one ankle behind the other and dipped into a curtsey. 

"Daddy do you like my dress?" She cutely squeaked out, batting her eyelashes at him. Before Russell had a chance to respond, she boldly blurted out, "Daddy, can we fuck in my new outfit?" 

Summer, not missing a beat, is practically vibrating with excitement beside me, her own eyes sparkling with mischief and anticipation. "Oooo, Mommy, can I help Daddy? I'm the best little helper!" 

I shook my head, knowing that my head-of-household (HoH) intervention would soon be required. The lustful energies that had been building since Russell and Sarah moved in, threatened to overwhelm the delicate balance of our unique dynamic and the roles we all played for each other. 

"Alight, everyone," I said firmly, my voice cutting through the sexually charged atmosphere like a knife. "It's time for a little family meeting, there must be order in this household." 

...and it was "Mommy's" job to uphold it. 

Mistress Andrea 

xoxo

Continued in: Family Meeting

It Will Heal

Continued from: The Goth Girls

[F/ff] [spanking] [hairbrush] [cornertime] [humiliation] [mother-daughter] [OTK] [family taboo]

I sat upon the edge of the wooden chair, creating a steady base by bringing my knees together, as I surveyed the scene before me. To my left, Cassandra sat primly in the other chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed steadfastly on the corner of the room. She was the picture of obedience, of submission, her ridiculous schoolgirl uniform a stark reminder of her childish behaviour. 

In front of me, stood Bella, her mother, a woman of fifty-odd years, dressed in an equally absurd outfit, her face a mask of humiliation and embarrassment. 

"Isabella," I said, my voice low and dangerous, "I'd like you to pull down your panties and lay over my knees. Now!" For a moment, she hesitated, her hands trembling at her sides, her bottom lip trembling. But with a resigned sigh, she reached beneath her skirt, hooking her thumbs into the waistband on her panties and slide them down to her ankles with a whisper of satin against skin. 

With one last despairing glance at her daughter, she turned to face me, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "Please, Ma'am," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of Cassandra's sobs. "Not like this. Not in front of her." 

But her pleas fell on deaf ears. With a single, imperious gesture, I beckoned her forward, patting my lap in invitation. I took her hand in mine, guiding her gently but firmly over my knees, arranging her body so that her bum is raised high in the air, her skirt riding up to expose her vulnerable bum and pussy. 

Her hand flew back after the first volley of smacks, instinctively trying to cover her exposed bottom. I reacted quickly, seizing her wrist and pinning it to the small of her back. 

With each transition of position and each escalation of implement used, I relived her of another article of clothing. 

My initial thought was to spank her bare naked, in front of her daughter, for the added psychological effect. But, I decided to keep her in just her knee socks and Mary Janes to amplify her innocent vulnerability and humiliation. 

As I continued to punish Bella, I was acutely aware that Cassie could hear every cry, every promise to be a good girl, every desperate plea that escaped her mother's lips, and I could only imagine the conflicting emotions that must have been coursing through her. 

On one hand, there must have been a sense of vengeful satisfaction, as she heard my hairbrush cracking down against her mother's bare bum. But also, a fear and trepidation as she realized it will soon be her turn. 

As she laid sobbing across my lap, her bum a deep, angry shade of red, she clutched my hosed ankle and begged for the spanking to conclude. "Please, Ma'am," she whispered, her voice hoarse and ragged from crying. "Please, I'll be good. I'll make things right with Cassie." 

I helped her to her feet and arranged her in the corner to swap places with her daughter, moving the time-out chair to a very public presentation below the window. 

Cassandra received the exact treatment in the same fury of punishing severity. A hand spanking, a strapping on the bed with pillows under her hips, and back over my knee for the hairbrush, all the while, relieving her of the protection of clothing. 

The odd time, I would scold Bella who stood quietly in the corner with her nose to the wall. "Hands on your head, don't even think about trying to rub that sore little bottom of yours, Isabella." 

I delivered the final strokes of the hairbrush to Cassandra's upturned bum, each impact landing with a resounding crack. I allow her a moment to collect herself and steady her breathing, before helping her to her feet. 

"Go and join your mom in the corner, hands on your head," I instructed her, my tone firm and maternal. 

"I want you two to think long and hard about why you're standing in the corner with spanked bottoms and the choices you two have made to bring you to this moment. You may speak to one another during your time-out, but under no circumstances are you to move from that corner. I'll be back in thirty minutes." 

Cassandra nodded mutely, her lower lip trembling as she turned to obey my command, and took up a position beside her mother. 

Satisfied that they understand, I turn and exit the room, closing the door softly behind me and setting a timer on my phone. Thirty minutes. That should give them amble opportunity talk and reflect upon their behaviour, upon the events that led them to this humiliating and painful predicament. 

Exactly thirty minutes later, I reenter the room, my heels clicking in a commanding cadence against the hardwood. "You may turn and face me," I instruct, my voice calm and measured. 

(I asked the A.I. for knee socks, glossy Mary Janes, hands on heads and otherwise, bare naked. This is the best you're getting I'm afraid)

"And you have my permission to rub those sore bottoms if you feel the need." 

Their hands protectively drop from their heads to cup and massages their tender, inflamed bums as they both squeaked out a, "I'm sorry, Ma'am." 

I look at the two Goth women before me, their faces streaked with tears, their bodies trembling with a mixture of pain, humiliation and emotional exhaustion. 

"It will heal, girls," I tell them, my voice gentle but firm. "The soreness will fade, the welts and bruises will disappear. But what of the welts and bruises you've inflicted on each other? The apology you owe is not to me, it's to each other, as your relationship will heal, just like your bums will." 

I waited patiently, expectantly for one of these previously stubborn Goth women to break the silence, towards reconciliation, to towards healing. 

I watched as Bella reached out to her daughter, pulling her into a tight embrace, their naked bodies pressing together, their breasts and nipples meeting in a strangely intimate and taboo manner. Tears streamed down Bella's face freely as she held Cassandra close as she whispered the only words Cassie needed to hear. 

"I love you, Cassandra." 

Cassandra stood rigid in her mother's arms, her body tense, uncertain, as if unsure how to respond. But then, slowly, I saw her shoulders relax, her arms lifting to encircle her mother's naked back, returning the embrace with equal fervor. 

"I love you too, Mom," she murmurs, her own voice thick with tears. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for everything."

They clung to each other, their bodies shaking with sobs, their tears mingling, washing away the pain and anger and resentment that had built up between them over the years. It was a beautiful moment that filled my heart with warmth and hope. 

I picked up my hairbrush and ran my hand over the smooth expanse of the backside, smiling at its simplicity. I opened my dresser drawer and tossed it in with the others. 

Feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment, I left the room without saying another word. 

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

Continued in: There Must be Order