One morning, he wouldn’t get out of bed and so I climbed up onto him like this. He didn’t shove me off, it’s the only position he seems to really feel submissive in. His eyes always get all wide and sweet and eager.

I pushed my panties aside and told him to lick my pussy. With my knees, I trapped his arms under me. From experience, I know he can push me off easily, but he didn’t move to topple me. Instead, he obeyed. He was a really good boy.

Eventually, I rolled off of him and told him to crawl over and lick my pussy. Instead, he snatched up some rope from the floor and grinned, rolling me onto my stomach.

“Nooo,” I whined, “you’re supposed to lick my pussy.”

“Yeah?” he mocked, “I’m supposed to lick your pussy?”

I buried my face into the sheets and pouted as he finished knotting off the rope around my wrists. Honestly, I wouldn’t have known what to do if he let me keep domming him. When I used to dom Switch, it was super easy because he wasn’t really my “Sir.” We just played around and messed with the roles. And since he was more of a sub than a dom, I could be a meanie and he’d love it.

With Sir, I don’t know. I’m not brave enough to push into further domme territory. And so I was a little grateful that he took over, even if I did get punished.

She knows she’s supposed to wake Daddy up with her mouth. But, some mornings, the alternative is just so tempting.

With Sweetheart, there are no accidents.

I don’t think you’re gonna make it to work today, Daddy.

Hehehehehe.

Sometimes, Sweetheart could convince herself that she was actually the one in charge all along.

She’s the kind of girl

who pulls hard

but not so hard that he’ll let go.

“Sweetheart” by Ivy Kink

Hey, perverts. Here’s the title story of my collection of erotica. Check back here tomorrow (July 19th) at 5pm EST to find the indiegogo and ways to pre-order the book! Thank you all for your support and feedback thus far. <3

—

Sweetheart’s got a secret.

I call her “Sweetheart” because there’s something inherently filthy about it. It’s subtler than “Slut,” more condescending than “Pet,” more dignified than “Bitch.”

Most importantly, she likes it. It grabs her a certain way, makes her blush and bite her lip, lets her play coy. And it lets her shift the shame away from herself and embody it into a character she can put on and step out of at will.

But the thing about Sweetheart is that she bites off much more than she can chew. She’s a terrible gambler. She’ll get cocky and claim she can take thirty swats on her ass, but she’s in tears by seventeen. She says she can take a week without touching herself and is bargaining by day two. If she hadn’t handed over control of her allowance to me, I’d have every worry that she’d gamble it all away, and God knows how I’d explain the pigtails and the lollipop to the croupier.

“You always do make bad wagers, Sweetheart.”

She is curled up on the couch, feet tucked over her bum as if she could make me forget it. She keeps the television on in wrongful presumption: I don’t mind that I’m an interruption. I reach for the remote and switch the program off. It didn’t look like cartoons anyway.

“Hey!” She snaps around so hard her pigtails slap against her neck. Sometimes, I’ll have her wear them when we go out. And for all her protests and complaints, it was her idea to make them so pretty with the little pink love-in-tokyos.

“I said,” I repeat, sinking onto the couch beside her, pulling her up into my lap, “you make the worst wagers. I’m starting to believe that might be intentional.”

She nestles her cheek against my shoulder, burying her face into the fabric of my shirt. The tiniest, almost imperceptible squirm twists against my lap and I barely stifle a chuckle. “Nuh uh,” she insists, the telltale catch in her voice indicating that she’s blushing, “it’s not my fault.”

Sweetheart likes to imagine that she is bashful. In any case, she plays it off fairly well, attempting to pass off a pair of red cheeks for reluctance. But she can’t keep herself from smiling; sometimes, from outright giggling.

“I don’t wanna” usually means “tell me again.” “It’s too blushy” is “push me harder.” “You’re a meanie” roughly translates to “thank you.” The dead giveaway is usually that she’ll typically have yanked her panties down around her ankles in the same breath as a pout. Not to mention the fact that she can barely keep her fingers out of her cunt when I punish her.

“Sweetheart,” I’ll growl, “stop that, you’re shameless.”

“I can’t help it,” she’ll insist, hiding her face with her free hand. “It’s hungry.”

Now, she’s moved her face from my shoulder and nestled her head against my chest. It’s a game she plays, it’s her favorite trick. If she can not only just avoid eye contact, but completely obscure her face, she can somehow disconnect herself from whatever behavior she’s done that requires correction. She is no longer her choices, her horrible wagers, her brazen fingers, her eager cunt.

“You don’t think that you make the worst bargains?” I ask, settling my hands on her sides. I bounce my knee and lift her, forcing her to sit up and face me, “or you don’t think you make them on purpose?”

She shrugs. “I ‘unno, Daddy.”

“Sweetheart, I think you do know,” I tease, easing my hand underneath her to flip her onto her stomach across my lap. She attempts to sit back up with a huff, but I seize a wrist and twist it up her back just short of it being painful. For some drama, she gasps anyway. “You said, if you don’t remember to make me coffee for the rest of the week, I could spank you as much as I wanted,” I begin, rolling her dress up until it is basically a shirt, knotting the excess fabric off to ensure that she cannot pull it back down.

“So, I…I just forgot to buy coffee,” she insists.

I slip her panties down around her knees. “Sweetheart,” I try to sound firm, but I just come off entertained, “I found the coffee grounds in the garbage last night.”

Silence. She’s completely still. A flush of embarrassment that must be consuming her face and chest peeks over her shoulders.

“It’s not fair!”

She flails, kicking her legs enough to be controversial without risking any actual harm. It’s kind of her style: acting out just enough to ensure she’ll be punished, throwing the wrench in a calculated enough way to break the machine at just the right point. She lies to get caught and she bets to lose.

It’s her worst kept secret.

“Fairness” by Ivy Kink

Below, please find the next installment of previews of my book of erotica. This one is a drop longer and I posted a little bit of foreshadowing to it earlier today.

“It’s not fair!” She exclaimed, balling her hands into fists at her sides, brows furrowed in frustration. “I’m not even tired.”

Bedtime was perhaps one of the more cutting restrictions – indignities, if she was feeling dramatic – that her Daddy enforced. It was so basic, so devoid of sexual implication, so infantilizing. Moreover, it was subtle and constant enough to reinforce until the pattern crept under her skin and suddenly, even on a night off with friends, she found herself tired by eleven.

It was the insidious nature of this control that most frustrated and aroused her. And, with a few beers’ worth of liquid confidence and a crowd of her Daddy’s friends in the next room, she found herself bucking conventions in the hallway outside of the bedroom to buy herself at least another hour.

“Sweetheart,” her Daddy replied, attempting to mask his amusement behind authority, “it’s very fair. You have a bedtime and we stick to it. Otherwise…”

“But it isn’t fair,” she insisted, hoping her dedication to her argument would overrule her lack of evidence. “Everyone else is staying up.”

He chuckled, “Well, I’d hope so. It’s still quite early.” Much to his delight, her cheeks burned. “Besides, I can’t quite seem to put my finger on what you find so unfair.”

She shrugged, casting a glance down at her feet. “I ‘unno,” she replied. “I just don’t wanna. Not when everyone else gets to stay up.”

“Well, you have to, dear,” he answered gently, looping an arm around her waist. However, instead of bringing her into the bedroom, he escorted her back to the living room. “And I think you should be polite and let everyone know Daddy’s sending you off to bed. It’s pretty rude to just leave without explaining yourself.”

Her eyes widened and she dug her heels into the carpet as she waited for him to laugh and say he was kidding. However, there was no follow-up aside from a gentle shove toward their guests.

While their dynamic only rarely bled into their social lives, Daddy’s friends were still acutely aware of their extracurricular interests. Although she sometimes slipped up and would almost call him Daddy in public, she rarely strayed beyond the first syllable before catching herself. Sometimes, a friend would poke fun, but always in good spirit and without digging too deep into the dynamic.

She stared over her shoulder anxiously, but her Daddy motioned her toward their friends with a wave of his hand.

“Daddy, I can’t,” she whined, attempting to keep her voice low.

He grinned and reached out, patting her gently on the cheek. “Just one, Pumpkin.”

She huffed and sauntered over to the kitchen, hoping to catch someone alone. Blushing and anxious, she reached up and tapped a guest on the shoulder with a trembling hand.

“Daddy says it’s my bedtime,” she choked out her garbled, hurried admission. “So goodnight.”

A smirk. “How cute.”

It could have been worse. She had feared shame and ridicule; condescension was comparatively palatable. Biting her lip, she felt a gentle tug on her elbow and realized, in her nervousness, she had not noticed that Daddy had followed her into the kitchen.

He ushered her across the living room once more and towards the bedroom. Closing the door behind him, he featured to the bed.

“Lie down.”

She shuffled over to the bed, pouting as she moved to remove her dress.

“I didn’t say get undressed. Now lie down, face down.”

She whined and stomped her foot, letting it rise out of her shoe in a small gesture of protest. “But it’s not fair. I need to brush my teeth and change my clothes.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t say you were going to sleep just yet,” he chided. “Now stop with this ‘unfair’ talk and get on the bed.”

Tentatively, she stepped out of her other shoe before lying down on the bed. She folded her arms on the pillow and rested her head on them, attempting to get comfortable. However, Daddy tugged back harshly on one of her arms. She yelped in surprise as he slid one of her padded leather cuffs onto her wrist, buckling it snugly.

Releasing her arm, he quickly adorned the other wrist with a cuff, followed by her ankles. In a swift, rehearsed series of motions, he clipped her wrists together, followed by her ankles, before hitching his finger into the loop between the cuffs on her wrists. Tugging gently but firmly, he eased an arch into her back and secured her wrists to her ankles.

“Daddy,” she huffed, “I can’t sleep like this. It’s uncomfortable.”

He rolled up the bottom of her dress, letting it bunch around her hips. “Oh, sweetie,” he cooed, clicking his tongue, “I’m not letting you sleep for a while.”

She shivered at the chill of lubricant being applied to her asshole. “Da-” She managed to gasp out before he slid a finger into her, anchoring her still as he slapped her ass roughly.

She endured the spanking, the mocking wiggle of his finger inside her, the periodic scolding. Her fingers wiggled in the cuffs, toes curling as the finger in her asshole was drawn out and wiped on the skin of her rear.

Her Daddy pushed up on the juncture between her arms and legs, arching her body further. He climbed onto the bed behind her, pushing the full length of his cock into her ass.

Despite her best attempts to fuss and pout, she found herself unable to mask her enjoyment of these indignities. Her cunt dripped freely, body bucking back to meet each thrust, throat unable to contain the rumble of moans.

“Admit you like it, baby,” he ordered through gritted teeth, “tell me how much you love it.”

“I like the way you fuck me, Daddy,” she whined, burying her face into the pillow in shame.

“Louder,” he growled, “tell me you want it harder.”

“I want it harder, Daddy,” she gasped. “Please, harder.”

Despite the grunts that coupled his thrusts, he managed to chuckle. “Louder, princess. Tell them.”

“Them?” She asked, incredulous. It was then she began to wonder when the hum of conversation in the other room had died down, when the silence seemed to be only filled by the sounds of him using her ass. She whimpered, blushing all the way down to her chest.

“Oh God, Daddy,” she whispered. With that, he came, slipping out and sliding off of the bed. He tucked his cock back into his briefs and zipped up his jeans.

“You wanted to stay up? Now you get to stay up, sweetie. I’d say you could come back out, but I’d imagine you’d rather stay in here,” he said, patting her rear. “I’ll be back in a few hours to put you to bed, sweetheart.”

“But, Daddy,” she murmured as she felt his cum drip down the inside of her thigh. “It’s not fair…”

I’ve got a hunch she’s a little bit of a brat.