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

Scientific Method

Continued from: Enigma

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

Dr. Skylar St. Germaine, aka: Goddess Sky 

It was the first time I had ever seen Mistress Andrea blush, at the mention and the memory of her time spent in a submissive role, being spanked by Mr. Burnett, all those years ago. Interesting...her reaction looks like one of both embarrassment and arousal. I quickly underlined the word 'and', in my notepad, before turning my attention back to the pair of them. 

"Mistress Andrea," I turned to her, expressionless and clinical. "Would you be so kind as to excuse us for a moment? I have some research questions for Mr. Burnett, that is...Ma'am, Sir...if it's alright with both of you?" 

Mr. Burnett pointed at me and turned to Mistress Andrea with a cheerful look, as though he was smiling with his eyes. "I like this one," he said, gesturing to me. 

I watched Mistress give him a knowing smile, one built around years of trust and affection, as she told him to share whatever he needed, about their past. "Of course, Doctor," she remarked to me, before offering me a reassuring wink as she power-strutted out of the room. 

I cleared my throat, turning to Mr. Burnett, I couldn't quite tell if he was intimidated or aroused. He didn't quite strike me as the type to get intimidated around women, even ones in dominatrix attire. 

"Mr. Burnett," I began, my voice steady despite the nervous energy in the room. "I understand that you and Mistress Andrea shared a...unique dynamic during your time together. A dynamic that, if my assumptions are correct, involved the administration of corporal punishment." 

I paused, gauging his reaction, searching for any hint of confirmation or denial in his expression. Seeing none, I pressed on, driven by an insatiable curiosity. "Did you ever employ the use of a mirror during these sessions? I'm fascinated by the potential psychological implications of such a technique - the way it forces the recipient to confront their own vulnerability, their own humiliation. In my own practice, I just discovered that the mirror serves as a powerful catalyst for emotional release, enabling my clients to access depths of feeling they might overwise keep buried. 

I tilted my head to the side, a gesture reminiscent of an AI robot processing new information. "But I'm curious to hear your perspective, Mr. Burnett. How did Mistress Andrea respond to the mirror, if indeed you utilized it? Did it amplify her experience, pushing her to new heights of submission? Or did it perhaps trigger a defensive reaction, causing her to retreat into herself?"

As he explained some examples of just spankings, predominately non-sexual and intended to be real, for real reasons in one's life, I furiously scribbled notes into my pad. He covered the anticipation phases, the setting and set-up, and even the attire of both he and Mistress Andrea, all to be considered as ingredients important to the success of these sessions. 

"Ah, I see," I murmured, my mind racing as I processed this new information. "So, you employed a multifaceted approach to induce and increase the likelihood of emotional release - combining the humiliation of age regression with the physical intensity of the spanking and the psychological impact of the mirror. Fascinating, I just tried this myself." 

I reached for my notebook once again, flipping to a fresh page as I began to jot down my thoughts. "This aligns perfectly with my hypothesis regarding the synergistic effects of various BDSM techniques. By layering different stimuli, we create a complex web of sensory and emotional inputs, overwhelming the subject's defenses and facilitating a more profound cathartic experience." I paused, tapping my pen against my chin as I considered the implications. 

"Of course, the specific combination of elements is crucial. For Mistress Andrea, the schoolgirl attire likely tapped into deeply ingrained associations with childhood vulnerability and loss of control. Coupled with the mirror, which forced her to confront her own degraded state, and the spanking itself, which provided a visceral reminder of the her powerlessness, the overall effect must have been incredibly potent." I closed my eyes, painting a vivid picture in my mind of a young Andrea, fingers nervously fumbling in front of herself, yet to have earned the title of Mistress. 

I glanced up at Mr. Burnett, my eyes alight with intellectual fervor. "I can only imagine the depths of emotion this evoked in her - the shame, the fear, the exhilaration of total surrender. It's truly remarkable, the way our minds and bodies respond to such carefully orchestrated scenarios." I continued to scribble furiously, documenting every facet of this revelatory discussion. 

When I asked about Mistress Andrea's level of arousal during these sessions, yet another of my hypotheses began to qualify.

"Intriguing," I responded to Mr. Burnett, my pen flying across the page as I hurried to capture every detail. "The dichotomy between emotional distress and physiological arousal is a phenomenon I've observed before in my own clients, but to hear it described in such vivid terms...it's truly illuminating." 

I paused, my brow furrowing as I delved deeper into the implications of Mr. Burnett's words. "So, despite the tears, the humiliation, the utter degradation of being reduced to a naughty little schoolgirl, Mistress Andrea's body betrayed her true desires. The wetness between her legs, a testament to the primal, uncontrollable nature of sexual arousal." 

I shook my head in wonder, marveling at the complexity of human response. "It's as if the very act of submitting to such extreme humiliation triggers a deep, unconscious need for release. The mind rebels, even as the body surrenders, creating a paradoxical feedback loop of shame and pleasure." 

I looked up to Mr. Burnett, my eyes wide with scientific excitement. "This is precisely the kind of data I've been seeking - concrete evidence of the psychological and physiological interplay at work in BDSM scenarios. With this information, I can refine my techniques, tailoring each session to maximize the impact on my clients...but." I trailed off, a slight tremor in my hands as I set down my notebook. 

"It's still not enough," I whispered to myself. 

"Mr. Burnett," I began, my voice steady and serious. "I have a request. An unusual one, perhaps, but I believe it's necessary for the advancement of my research." I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I was about to propose. 

"I want you to spank me. Not just any spanking, mind you - I want you to recreate the experience you shared with Mistress Andrea, down to the smallest detail. The schoolgirl attire, the mirror, the humiliation...everything." I paused, searching his face for any sign of hesitation or disapproval. Seeing none, I pressed on, driven by a burning need to understand.    

"You see, I've spent countless hours observing and analyzing the reactions of others, I even spent some time training with Mistress Andrea, in a bottom role, but I've never fully immersed myself in the role of the submissive. I need to feel it, to experience firsthand the emotional and physiological responses, triggered by such intense stimuli." 

My heart pounded in my chest as I awaited his response, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation coursing through my veins. 

"Will you help me, Mr. Burnett? Will you show me what it's like to be spanked by a man, to be reduced to a helpless little girl, utterly at the mercy of another's whims? I need to know if my own arousal will betray me, just as Mistress Andrea's did. Only then, can I truly comprehend the depths of the human psyche in relation to BDSM."

I held my breath, my gaze vacantly locked on his, as I awaited his response...

After a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, Mr. Burnett nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Very well, Skylar," he said, his voice gritty and raspy. "If this is what you truly desire, then I shall grant your request. But be warned - this will not be a gentle introduction. This will be a very real spanking. I expect nothing less than total obedience and submission from you. Is that understood?" 

I swallowed hard, a shiver running down my spine at the authoritative tone in his voice. "Yes, Sir," I murmured, my head bowed in deference. "I understand completely." 

With that, Mr. Burnett rose from his chair, his imposing figure towering over me. "Good girl," he said, reaching out to stroke my cheek with a surprisingly tender touch. "Now, head upstairs and get dressed. Daddy will be up to deal with you shortly." 

"Ohhhh, FUCK, there it was!" The moment he uttered that single word - 'Daddy' - a surge of electricity shot through my body, igniting a fire deep within my core. It was unexpected, unplanned, and yet it resonated with a primal force I couldn't deny. 

As I climbed the stairs, my mind raced, cataloguing every sensation, every thought, every fleeting emotion and my stomach sickened with butterflies as I felt my pulse in my ears. 

The crisp pleats of the skirt brushed against my muscular thighs, the tight blouse straining against my adult breasts. I stood before the mirror, hardly recognizing the woman staring back at me. Gone was the confident, analytical scientist - in her place stood a vulnerable, eager submissive, ready to surrender herself completely, to a long-overdue spanking from her "Daddy".

And I had never felt more shamefully aroused, in that very moment. 

Sky 

Continued in: My Finest Work

 

Enigma

Continued from: Guilty Pleasures

[F/m] [F/sissy] [feminization] [humiliation] [spanking] [OTK] [BDSM] [femdom] [Mistress]

It was shortly after Christmas, and I was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast when Russell shuffled in, looking rather flustered. 

"There's a very young and jacked, angry-looking woman in the living room, Andrea," he announced, his voice tinged with confusion and a hint of jocularity. 

I couldn't help but chuckle at his bewildered expression, realizing that he'd never met Skylar before. And...I may have forgot to tell him she appears in the vanilla wing of the mansion from time to time. I guess she must have just finished a session on the heavenly-hash side of the house.

"That would be the Doctor," I explained, rather nonchalantly, all while pouring Russell a coffee. "She's one of my new gals at the Facility." 

"The Doctor?!" Russell remarked with a laugh. "She does, umm...like your medical fetish stuff?" 

"No, honey," I laughed, "she's an actual doctor. PhD in astrodynamics or something." 

"The-hell d'you find her?" Russell spoke, now sounding awe-struck, but not nearly as awe-struck as I was, the night I first met this young enigma of a woman. 

"I think I interrupted something, she just glared at me, and didn't say a thing. Like she was looking right through me." Russell stated, now sounding a bit amused with all of this. 

I will admit, Skylar does possess a bit of a distant glare, robotic looking and a bit spacey. It's like there's about sixteen other conversations going on in her mind, as she's maintaining a conversation with you. 

"It's because her brain is working about ten times faster than yours is, darling." I cooed to Russell, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

"C'mon, I'll show you, and introduce you to her." 

Still clad in her dominatrix leathers and heeled boots, looking every bit the intimidating goddess, she simply lounged by the fire, smoking a weed pen and mumbling to herself under her breath. I whispered to Russell, as not to disturb her. 

"She's running through the 'data' from her latest session, analyzing every detail of her sub's reactions, every nuance of her client's behaviour, and making notes about it."

It's a surreal scene, really - this stunning, powerful woman, lost in thought, her mind working overtime to dissect and understand the intricacies of human submission as a sexual kink. I pause for a moment, watching her in fascination. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips moving silently as she processes the her inner dialogue. 

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

Meanwhile, inside Skylar's mind: 

My client, a middle-aged man with a successful career and loving family, had broken down in tears the moment I presented him with the frilly pink dress and matching Mary Janes he would be wearing for his spanking. His reaction was fascinating - a raw, visceral display of emotion that seemed to stem from somewhere deep within his psyche. 

As I guided him over my knees and began his spanking, his sobs intensified, mingling with gasps and pleas for forgiveness, yet I wasn't spanking him hard, nor did he require my forgiveness for anything.

It's clear that the humiliation of being dressed like a little girl had struck a nerve, tapping into some long-buried shame or insecurity. But why? What was it about this particular stimuli that elicited such a profound response? 

Was it a manifestation of some childhood trauma, a desperate attempt to atone for perceived failures as a father or husband? Or perhaps it was a way of reclaiming a lost innocence, a chance to experience the unconditional love and guidance that only strict maternal discipline can provide.    

Halfway through his spanking, with his panties down to his knees, I decided to introduce a new element to the scene - a full-length mirror, positioned directly in front of my client as he lay over my lap. 

As I resumed his spanking on his reddening cheeks, I observed his reflection in the glass, noting the way his tear-streaked face contorted with each impact. The effect of the mirror was immediate and profound - his crying became more intense, his body writhing beneath my grip as if trying to escape the image before him. 

It was clear that seeing himself in such a vulnerable, humiliating state only served to heighten his emotional response. But why? What was it about witnessing his own degradation that pushed him over the edge? 

I hypothesized that the mirror acted as a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil, forcing him to confront the aspects of himself he had long sought to suppress. By dressing him as a little girl and subjecting him to a punishment typically associated to misbehaving children, I had tapped into a wellspring of guilt, shame and self-loathing that had festered within him for years. 

The mirror merely served as a catalyst, brining these feelings to the surface and allowing him to experience a cathartic release. As I continued his spanking, I marveled at the complexity of BDSM and the ability it has to break down barriers and expose raw, unfiltered emotions that lay beneath. 

With each snap of my palm against his tender bottom, I could feel him surrendering more deeply to the experience, letting go of the inhibitions and hang-ups that had held him back for so long. By the end of the session, he was a quivering, sobbing mess - but there was a palpable sense of relief in his demeanour, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

I'll make a mental note to incorporate the mirror technique into future sessions, eager to see how other clients might would respond to this potent tool of psychological manipulation.

When I close my eyes I can see the room again, I can smell it. It had a distinct aroma of pink baby lotion. The space was deliberately decorated like a little girl's bedroom, complete with pastel colours, frilly lace curtains, and an abundance of stuffed animals perched on every surface. But the centerpiece, the element that may be adding to the session, was the massive mural adorning the wall above the bed. 

A gathering of Disney princesses, each rendered in vibrant detail, the artwork seemed to watch over the proceedings with knowing smiles and sparkling eyes. I couldn't help but wonder what effect this visual stimulus had on my clients, particularly the men who found themselves in this feminine domain. 

Did they feel as though their spanking was being witnessed by a chorus of giggling, judgmental women, their embarrassment magnified tenfold by the presence of these iconic figures? Was this Mistress Andrea's intention all along - to create a space where our clients' shame and vulnerability were constantly reinforced, even in the absence of a real audience?  

By surrounding our clients with symbols of femininity and innocence, we were effectively stripping them of their adult identities, reducing them to the status of helpless, naughty children in need of correction. 

I'm only scratching the surface of what this world has to offer. There was so much more to learn, so much more data to collect - and I am determined to uncover all of it, one spanking at a time.

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

As I cleared my throat, Skylar snapped out of her scientific state. She looked up, startled as if she'd forgotten where she was. "Oh, hello, Mistress Andrea," she said, a slight blush creeping into her cheeks. "I hope you don't mind me making myself at home. I just needed a quiet space to think after my session." 

I assured her it was no problem at all and gestured to Russell, to introduce him. 

"Sky, I'd like you to meet someone very special to me. This is Russell Burnett, the one I've told you about." 

She tilted her head to the side, almost like a synthetic human processing new information. She fixed her distant gaze on Russell, her eyes narrowing to study his face. 

"Mr. Burnett, you used to provide Mistress Andrea with spankings, didn't you?" she blurted out, her voice low and curious. 

"Did you ever position a mirror in front of her?" 

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

Continued in: Scientific Method

Guilty Pleasures

Continued from: Save the last Dance

[F/f] [lezdom] [stripper] [BDSM] [kink]

As Cassandra continues her mesmerizing dance, her body moving with a fluid grace that defies description, I find myself growing increasingly aroused. The sight of her nearly nude form, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, is almost more than I can bear, and I feel my own desire rising to a fever pitch. 

Finally, unable to resist any longer, I crook my finger at her, beckoning her closer. Like a sleek, predatory cat, she crawls towards me on all fours, her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. 

As she reaches me, she sits back on her haunches, her head bowed in a gesture of submission. "Please, Mistress," she whispers, her voice low and husky with need, "let me taste you." 

Unable to deny her request after being enchanted by her dancing, I part my thighs, granting her access to the molten heat that lies between them. With a moan of unadulterated lust, Cassie buries her face in my pussy, her tongue delving deep into my folds as she seeks out the sensitive bud of my clit. 

She quickly slipped me out of my dress, then bit my bare ass, causing me to yelp and react by slapping one of her tits. Cassandra simply smiled, all while sporting a bit of crazed look in her eyes.  

She hooked two of her fingers inside me and literally led me by my pussy, over to the other couch, where she pushed me down onto my back and continued to finger-blast me. 

Reaching up, I grasp her hair, tugging her head back until she is forced to meet my gaze. "Your turn," I growl, my voice thick with desire. Our interactions were beginning to look more like a fight, but I was loving every second of it, especially when she took hold of my throat once more and pinned me down on the couch cushion. 

She straddled my face between her thighs, lowering her dripping cunt onto my face. When she made contact with my lips, my tongue darted out to lap at her swollen clit. 

Together, we writhe and moan, taking turns flipping between offense and defense, hair being pulled, faces being playfully slapped, as the strip joint soundtrack continued to boom all around us.

As our passion builds to a crescendo, we shift positions, our legs intertwined as we scissor our pussies together, grinding and rubbing against each other in a desperate quest for release. 

Finally, after wrestling around some more in a haze of pure, unbridled ecstasy, we both cum at the same time, our bodies convulsing in a series of earth-shattering orgasms that seem to go on forever.

Exhausted and spent, I laid back as Cassie took top control once again, effortlessly launching my legs back and into the air to clean me with her mouth. 

As Cassandra and I lay entwined in each other's arms, our bodies still trembling with the aftershocks, I traced my palm over her smooth, perfect ass, the marks of her spanking having long since faded. I gave her a few motherly pats on the bum helped her to her feet. "I need to get you to the airport, sweetheart." 

Anthony Bourdain once compared unhealthy, good idea at the time, fast food, to a trashy street-walking hooker in ripped stockings and shitty heels. His theory being, that sometimes, you just want that! Haha, its classic Tony!

"It's 3AM, you're drunk and stoned, and you leave your apartment to hit up the Brooklyn-style, folded pizza slice joint down the street. You know it's a bad idea, but sometimes you just need to."  

That's what sex with Cassandra is like...

I was watching that show "The Taste", again last night. The food challenge was called guilty pleasures. Anthony took a bite of the eventual winner's dish and I watched him close his eyes and say: 

"Ohhh, take me home and treat me badly!" Haha! 

Haha! That...is Cassandra on a spoon. Unlike the photo above however, she bites back! 

Mistress Andrea 

xoxo

Continued in: Enigma

Save the Last Dance

Continued from: Christmas Cards

[F/mfff] [F/f] [lezdom] [spanking] [BDSM] [kink] [lesbian] 

Watching Sarah and Mandy cuddled together on the couch, their bodies intertwined and their faces glowing with the aftermath of their heavy session downstairs, I couldn't help but marvel at the unique connection that had formed between them. 

Adorable little things, those two are. Kissing each other's lips and nuzzling noses as they giggled and whispered about the ferocity of their recent orgasms. Mandy eventually made her way home, back to her own family, with a very sore bottom to sit on during Christmas dinner. 

Christmas Day here, had been an absolute delight, with Summer and Sarah slipping effortlessly into their age-regressed personas, their innocence and charm enhanced by the darling Mary Jane Loubies they unwrapped in the morning. 

Seeing them clicking around in their festive attire, their eyes sparkling with childlike wonder and excitement, filled my heart and Russell's, with warmth and joy. The girls had become very comfortable with calling Russell and I, "Mommy" and "Daddy", with Summer slipping in the odd "Papa", in her thick accent. 

Up here in the North, we ended up getting a white Christmas, which seems to becoming more and more rare of late. News people said only three out of our last eight Christmas Days were white ones, which, twenty years ago, would have been unfathomable. Climate change is real, people! 

Of course, the highlight of the day was undoubtedly the feast I prepared for everyone - a traditional prime rib roast with Yorkshire pudding. Turkey was outlawed in my household years ago, due to its similarity to sawdust on the palate. 

The beef was much better. High heat sear on all sides to get a nice crust, then 200 degrees only, very low and slow, for 4-6 hours depending on the size of the roast. Pull it out when your internal is 137 if you want a perfect medium doneness, evenly from outside to the very middle. 

Once I was able to shed my apron, "Mommy" got herself into a velvet dress, just like the girls only a little more sensual and mature. 

As I descended the staircase and, the click of my heels echoing through the marble grand lobby, I was greeted by the sight of Russell, standing there in a suit, a glass of champagne held out in offering. His eyes widened with admiration, as he took in my appearance. "My Goddess," he breathed out, his voice thick with emotion, "you look absolutely radiant." 

Blushing at his heartfelt compliment, I step into his strong arms, allowing him to enfold me into a tender embrace. 

He tossed his jacket aside as I melted into his arms once more, swaying gently around the room with absolutely no music playing. From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Summer and Sarah, their faces aglow with happiness as they watched Mommy and Daddy slow dance. 

As we swayed gently around the room together, lost in our own memories, I was transported back to a time when he and I were younger, carefree, our love burning bright and fierce like a raging inferno. 

As our impromptu dance came to a gentle conclusion, I found myself drawn irresistibly to Russell's face, my gaze fixed upon the single, crystalline tear that was trickling slowly down his cheek. With a tenderness born of our history together, I leaned in to capture the salty, briny tear, kissing him on the cheek in the process. 

The tears I'm afraid, did not stop there, as Boxing Day marked the tearful departure of Cassandra, back to the U.K. and back into the arms of her wife, Carley. After saying goodbye to Russell, to Sarah Jane and to a bawling Summer, Russell took the girls shopping, allowing some alone time for Cassie and I. 

"Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave, Mistress? You've done so much for me!" A slow, wicked grin, spread across my face as I considered her question. 

"As a matter of fact, there is," I purred, my voice laced with seduction. "Come with me." Taking Cassie's hand in mine, I lead her up the sweeping staircase and down the hallway, towards the hidden entrance to the strip club that lies concealed within the depths of the Facility. 

Gentle music was playing in the background, as Cassandra turned and began to grind her ass into my midsection. I leaned in close, my voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Dance for me, Cassie. Just like you used to." 

She pushed me back onto the couch, her little frame pouncing on me like a jaguar locking eyes with its prey, before she drove her tongue into my mouth. "If I dance for you, Mistress" she gritted her teeth and put a hand around my throat, "can we fuck afterwards?"  

I smiled at her softly and gestured to the change room, despite being partially strangled at that moment, I was able to breathe out a, "you can change in there."

Cassie quickly slipped into a scandalously revealing outfit that left little to the imagination. Her body is a work of art, all sleek muscles and tantalizing curves with a skinny waist and juicy arse. 

I jumped when the music started, the first note ripping through my chest with a deep boom of bass. This was definitely a stripper song, carefully chosen by Cassandra. 

Winner till the day I die

She likely picked a song like this to reflect her current mood, brazen enough to put her hand onto her Mistress' throat! How dare she! 

Truth be told, I think I did this move on her once, when we were having sex, and directed her hand around my neck. She's never let me forget that *blush*.   

I found myself utterly captivated. Each thrust of her hips, each sensual roll of her shoulders, sent a jolt of electricity directly to my pussy, igniting a fire deep within my core. Lost in the hypnotic rhythm of her dace, I allowed myself to be swept away by the primal, animalistic energy that filled the room, surrendering to the dark, delicious pleasure that only Cassie can provide.

Turn that song up really loud, gaze upon the image below and just image our little Cassie, working that stripper pole as she slowly rids herself of her clothing. 

Mistress Andrea

xoxo

Continued in: Guilty Pleasures