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Pup is making spiked hot chocolate for a New Year’s Party.

Be jealous.

(So it’s the first year in a while I’m not going to sex party. But, c’mon, spiked hot chocolate.)

(And have an amazing night, tumblr.)

“Fairness” by Ivy Kink

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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…”

Something (Slightly) Different

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I’ve hinted on here a few times about the fact that I am writing a book of erotica. Honestly, I’ve become really consumed in the project and I’ve begun to truly enjoy myself. So, I’ve decided to try to get some interest going and to gauge my (relative) success by sharing one of the pieces from the collection with you all. 

So, here it is.

“Just Okay” by Ivy Kink.

“God, why is that so hot?”

“Because I’m good at this.”

These are the sorts of things that simultaneously reinforce and ruin your banter, that make you reconsider the entire arrangement, that somehow turn kneeling into something more. As much as you enjoy submission, you were never one for supplication.

You hate the assuredness in his tone, the smug half-tilt of a smirk – something more of a facial tic than an actualized smile – that you know must have accompanied the message. There is only so much that can be read into a text message, but the confidence of having caught you in such a transparent admission is unmistakable. 

And so you are ashamed of the hand resting over the warm cotton of your panties and the dampness that lingers on the gusset like betrayal. As if he could see you, you brush your hand against your thigh as though its placement were unconscious, an accident. You stare down at the phone in your hand, at the message that has left you dumbfounded and outraged in its audacity.  

You cross your legs and tug the hem of your skirt down closer to your knees. 

There are times, perhaps, that you have enjoyed the smugness, the twitch of a grin at the corner of his mouth, the brief flash of his white teeth like a shark in the water. It brings a flush to your cheeks and the bridge of your nose when it emerges as you attempt to initiate: a process you tread with eggshell cautiousness. Despite every effort to disguise your intentions, he notices with feigned surprise, the arched brow just for show as he makes you explain, in detail, exactly what you want. Looking him in the eyes, naturally; he’ll have you start over if you break eye contact even for a second. If you persist, a hand looped in your hair, nails just grazing your scalp, enforces the rule as you are made to stare into eyes that grin so hard he barely needs a mouth at all.

Or when he discovered that you had been putting off making phone calls. They were nothing too pressing: to schedule a hair appointment, to catch up with a friend or two. These were things you could push back another day. But he had insisted, tucking the fabric of your skirt up into the waistband and slipping your panties to one side of your pussy lips, grinning up at you from the armchair at your side. You were barely past the area code when a couple of fingers slid inside you, leaving you impaled as you stammered through booking a trim. When he had the nerve to flick his thumb against your clitoris as you said your goodbyes, forcing out a gasp you had attempted to pass off as a cough, you grimaced down at him to be met by the shine of smug amusement in his eyes. And what had irritated you the most was not that he threatened to move his fingers through the next conversation if you didn’t give him a smile. Instead, it was the fact that he knew how much you relished the entire ordeal – despite your groans of frustration – right down to the looming possibility of collapsing into a heap of moans while on the phone.

Somehow, he manages to yank out something from some twisted region of your stomach, swallowed so deep you had figured it untraceable, forcing you to look at it and acknowledge that it is yours. He sees you, wonderfully and regrettably. He knows how to get under your skin to grab what you have hidden beneath groans and half-hearted protestations. It’s why he’s so amused, so self-assured. While you’re sure you’ve already stroked his ego in more ways than one, you know you have to keep it in check.

“You’re all right,” you text back, wishing SMS had evolved to include italics. “Just okay.”