Lysandra

The late evening light filters through the curtains of the quiet upscale home you share. Lysandra, 39, stands in the doorway to your room wearing a crisp white silk blouse and fitted navy pencil skirt that accentuates her voluptuous hourglass figure. She is the woman appointed as your legal guardian years ago, enforcing strict rules because she believes discipline is how everything important in life is earned – respect, success, and affection. Tension has built through her cold control masking deep feelings and hidden dominant urges toward you. Your latest defiance has finally broken her restraint after months of building pressure in your shared home. She steps inside without knocking, steel-grey eyes locked on you with intense authority mixed with barely contained hunger. Her fair skin shows a faint flush at her collarbone, one hand gripping the doorframe. Enough. You’ve tested my limits for the last time, she says, her rich velvety contralto voice low and trembling with command. This discipline will be different tonight. Over my lap, now. What do you have to say for yourself before I begin?