my writing

Classing Up Around Here: Sweetheart Ebook Edition

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In addition to the From Memory section, I’ve included a link to Ebooks in the sidebar of my tumblr.

So, this means, instead of me having to email Sweetheart to you and whatnot, you can just hit up Smashwords and do it the super legit way. And super anonymous, I guess, too.

Right now, it’s available in epub, mobi, pdf, rtf, lrf, pdb, and txt. It’s also coming soon for your kindle/iPad. 

(Massive apologies for the delay on that. It’s a combination of formatting woes, red tape and life.)

Notice, Ebooks plural. Something’s a-cookin’ and should be joining Sweetheart soon. 😉

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Hey, followers. There’s now under a month left on the indiegogo for my e-book, Sweetheart. And, so far, the support over the past week and change has been amazing, raising more than 12% of my goal. So, thank you!

I’m writing to build a drop more hype around the perks end of the e-book. The photographer of the cover, Dominic von Stösser, has graciously printed twenty awesome fine-art prints of the cover image on 5×7" fibre-based paper. (Look how pretty they are! You can use them to fan yourself from their hotness.)

And, if you donate $40 to the cause, you’ll have one mailed to you, along with a note of gratitude from myself.

And, as you should know by now, I tend to express gratitude with a little more than a simple “thank you.”

Either way, consider this post an expression of my gratitude and also a reminder that the e-book is out August 1 (whaaaaat) so get those pre-orders in if you’d like to make me a happy kitty and help support a budding erotica writer. Currently, it’s in the editing/proofreading stage so you all don’t get no E.L. James-style errors up in this book.

And, remember, the highest donor gets a nice surprise (that isn’t really a surprise, just read the indiegogo.)

</shameless self promotion>

<3, Ivy

For samples of Sweetheart, click here.

To pre-order Sweetheart and/or get your hands on one of these prints, click here.

“Sweetheart” by Ivy Kink

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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.

“Woof Woof” by Ivy Kink

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So yesterday was kind of a weird day and I neglected to share an excerpt from my collection as I have for the last few weeks. This one is the last one before this Thursday, when I am going to reveal the title story and launch the indiegogo (as suggested by some amazing followers), where you can donate to this project and preorder the collection. Thank you for your amazing support so far and I’m super excited and here you gooo.

—


It took forever to get him to bark properly. 

She had never wished to coerce him, both because of her recognition of the necessity of willing, enthusiastic consent and the unparalleled satisfaction she felt when attaining it. And so she told him, in a way that made him cringe with its vague menace, that he would bark when he was ready.  

He had accepted the leash and collar gamely, feigned reluctance over eating from the bowl on the floor with insect-wing transparency, hesitated at first at the prospect of a tail until curiosity and subsequent pleasure got the better of him.  

“I wouldn’t even know what to sound like,” he insisted, grasping for excuses. “I mean, you don’t actually want me to bark, do you? Like, woof woof?" 

She snorted. "Go find me a puppy that says ‘woof woof’ and maybe I’ll let that fly.”

He attempted to make himself bark, but the results were halfhearted and self-conscious. “Don’t force it,” she said gently, her plump lower lip grazing his earlobe in feather-soft contrast to the seven inches of silicone prodding into his stomach. She leaned back up, grasped his hair firmly and rubbed his lips across the tip. “Why don’t you busy your mouth with something it likes to do?”

He tried again a few nights later, curled up at her feet while she watched the news. It was gruff, almost a cough. She grinned and eased one of her feet out of her espadrilles, arranging her toes over his lips as if they were a row of teeth. “That one was cute,” she murmured, applying pressure to his chin with her heel until he dipped his head back. Now eye-to-eye with her, he could see the way her features had softened in genuine admiration for his efforts. “It came close, pup, but don’t try so hard.”

It was the fact that she had wanted such an earnest bark out of him that made the act so difficult. She didn’t want to degrade him so much as to bury him so deeply into this role that he could no longer extricate an act of devotion from an involuntary reflex. He wasn’t simply to play puppy anymore, although there was always something solemn in the playfulness that indicated that it had never been merely a game to either of them.

One morning, he walked into the kitchen to find his food in a bowl on the floor, a porcelain container of water alongside it. By the still-dirty cup of the blender in the sink and the mush his food had been reduced to, he assumed that she had ground up a second set of the eggs and sausage that sat in front of her into a parody of dog food.

“You’ll eat it, won’t you?” She was sitting at the kitchen table, an unmasked look of self-doubt in her eyes. “I haven’t gone too far this time?”

He sank to his knees and studied the food once more. Sure, he had eaten off of the floor. But never quite in this capacity, never with the humanness blended right out of his meals. “I’ll eat it,” he replied and her face softened. 

Lowering his head, he extended his tongue carefully as to ensure his face would not be covered in the mess of egg and sausage. He heard her rise from her seat and caught, out of the corner of his eye, the flash of her white slippers, followed by her knees settling onto the laminate tile. “You know,” she began in a way that seemed rehearsed, trembling with the jitters of an opening night, “that’s not how puppies do it. Their tongues go down, not up, that’s why they’re messier than cats.” 

Her hand settled into his hair and she applied pressure, shoving his face into the food. He felt the thick mush cover his cheeks, his chin, even his forehead. 

And there, suddenly, he felt it, caught in his throat like a hiccup. 

“Just Friends” by Ivy Kink

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In this installment of excerpts of my collection of erotica, I take on the stereotype of bi-curious college girls. Enjoy!

Since she had moved away to college, Jenna was not used to being awoken by anything aside from an alarm clock and her anxiety that she would oversleep class. Sometimes, an ill-timed triggering of the fire alarm or the wail of a truck backing up into the construction on the new Chemistry building across the quad would jolt her from sleep, but certainly not another person. So, she was surprised that Saturday morning to feel the brush of fingertips across her shoulder. “Hey, Jenna,” a familiar voice whispered gently, a lock of hair tickling over her arm as her morning visitor leaned closer, “wake up, it’s almost eleven.”

Jenna attempted to shoot up in bed at the mention of it being so close to the afternoon. Usually, she prided herself on her punctuality: a quality so many of her classmates had abandoned in the second semester in favor of an extra few minutes of sleep. However, before Jenna could scramble off of her bed in order to snatch up her backpack and sprint across campus to class, two factors stopped her from dashing off in a blur of scattered bed sheets. The first was her realization that it was the weekend, which momentarily abated her distress until she noticed the second: that she was immobilized, held in place by bonds she could not immediately recall. She panicked, twisting in her sheets as best as she could until she was lying on her side and found herself face-to-face with her roommate, Brenda.

“Brenda, what the fuck?” She exclaimed, noticing the wicked grin that had crossed her friend’s face. She followed Brenda’s gaze and discovered the neat layers of thin, white plastic looped above and below her breasts, pulling her nightgown taut over her chest. Her nipples protruded beneath the light cotton in conspicuous arousal, drawing a mortified rush of blood into Jenna’s cheeks. Giving what she was sure was even more of the strips plastic encasing her arms and legs another tug, she recalled the events of the night before with a heavy sigh.

She had just finished brushing her teeth when Brenda returned from the novelty store in town with the bondage tape, which she had excitedly shown her roommate with a flourish. Tearing the roll from the packaging with Christmas-morning eagerness, Brenda explained the merits of the tape’s abilities to not stick to skin to her visibly underwhelmed roommate. While Jenna was hardly a prude, she was caught off-guard by her roommate’s willingness to discuss her sexual repertoire in painstaking detail, her unabashed carelessness that resulted in the chain of her nipple clamps being left to dangle over top of their minifridge, her willingness to lend Jenna her vibrator – an offer of generosity that was a tad too intimate for Jenna to redeem.

Although she had not shared her roommate’s joy over the new method of restraint, Jenna was intrigued, if a little skeptical. “I mean, it’s cool, I guess,” she replied, stepping out of her slippers, “I just don’t really think it could hold that well if it’s just sticking to itself with – what – static?”

“It’s pretty effective from what I’ve heard. And once Dave gets back, I’ll have a personal testimony,” Brenda cracked, winking and plunking down on her bed at the other end of the room. Although the two shared a bedroom, Brenda’s proclivity to sleep at her boyfriend’s across campus made Jenna often feel as if she had the place all to herself. While the privacy came in handy for late-night study sessions or the occasions that Jenna would bring a boy around, she was grateful to have the company of her roommate that evening while Dave was away.

“And how would you know, anyway?” Brenda added with just a hint of coyness, “nobody’s ever tied you up like that, right?”

Jenna shrugged and reached for her hairbrush, “educated guess.” With a sigh, she started to comb her hair.

“You want to try?” Brenda asked, offering the roll of tape with an inviting shake of her hand, as if wagging a chew-toy. “I’ll tie you up, you get out.” She strode over to Jenna’s side of the room, running her thumb excitedly over the loose end of the tape, “in fact, we’ll make this fun. We’ll turn it into a bet. You get out, I’ll buy you lunch. You concede that you can’t and lunch is on you.”

Mulling over the offer, Jenna hesitated. The tape did not look very harsh or so completely inescapable, but the idea of being tied up was not particularly appealing. As far as sex went, Jenna was what her roommate deemed “a nice scoop of vanilla ice cream at a church picnic.” She was much less interested in relating the details of her escapades. Any tales that Brenda had managed to wheedle out of her roommate were seriously abridged and relied heavily on euphemism. To Jenna, cunnilingus was just as exciting and scandalous as flogging was to her roommate. Unlike Brenda, Jenna seemed immune to diminishing returns and was content to repeat her preferred repertoire.

“Come on,” Brenda pressed, a wicked grin crossing her face, “you said yourself that you’d be out in two seconds.”

“I didn’t say it that way.”

“Oh, same difference,” Brenda insisted, plopping down next to her on the bed, “now lie down on your stomach.”

Jenna shook her head, “I’m not into it, Brenda.”

“Aww, you didn’t think I was coming onto you, did you?” she asked slyly, looping arm around Jenna’s shoulders. “We’re just doing this for fun, okay? Just as friends, I promise. It’s just a silly bet.” She winked and wagged the roll of bondage tape once more. “Now, really, get on your stomach.”

With a huff, Jenna set the hairbrush down on her bedside table and swung her legs onto the bed. Tentatively, she settled onto her stomach and rested her hands up by her pillow. “Fine,” she groaned, “but hurry up, would you? I’m getting sleepy.”

Brenda rearranged Jenna’s arms behind her back. Carefully, she began to wrap them in the tape, encasing her roommate’s forearms in the slick, white plastic from wrist to just below the elbow. “I picked the white kind so Dave can wrap it like a bra, too, make me look like the girl from The Fifth Element,” Brenda explained as she cut the tape with a pair of brow scissors and carefully tucked the loose end under the bonds. In order to ensure it stuck, pressed it carefully against the looped plastic. “But it comes in all sorts of colors.”

“Cool beans,” Jenna replied with just a hint of snark. Her brow furrowed in confusion as her friend carefully eased her torso up and began to wrap the tape under her breasts, securing her bound arms to her back. “Hey,” she exclaimed as Brenda shifted the tape above her breasts, wrapping the tape some more. “Isn’t that a little excessive?”

“Shush, would you?” Brenda chided as she sliced off the tape from the roll. “I haven’t even gotten to your legs yet, whiner.”

With that, she began winding the tape around Jenna’s legs, easing her nightgown up slightly to extend the wrapping up to the middle of her roommate’s thighs. Despite her general aversion to bondage, Jenna could not help but blush as Brenda’s fingertips brushed her legs and her skin receded below the meticulously wrapped bondage tape. When Brenda leaned down to bite off the tape from the roll, Jenna felt a slight tremor at the feeling of her roommate’s lips dragging along her skin, the sharp motion slowed in Jenna’s mind by its sheer audacity. When the bite proved unsuccessful, she found herself stifling a shiver as she felt the chill of the scissors.

“All right,” Brenda said, straightening up and climbing off of the bed, “let’s see your best attempt.”

Although she attempted to wriggle out, to snap the plastic, to work some part loose, Jenna found that the tape did not give. What she did find, however, was that she had underestimated the degree to which she would enjoy being encased in the stringent white tape. While she dreaded the fact that she might not be able to free herself, she relished the new sensation of helplessness at the hands of her roommate, however trite. She felt her cunt tingle, wet and eager at the prospect. With every squirm and tug, she sank further into the fantasy of having been captured and was unable to contain a moan or two as she considered what her roommate might do with her in such a state. Or, what she might have to do to encourage Brenda to release her. Or, touch her again. She couldn’t decide.

Brenda was nothing short of demure, politely asking every so often if her friend’s circulation was unobstructed and watching with only the faintest hint of smugness. In her struggles, Jenna grew tired and, before she knew it, found herself staring up at her grinning roommate the next morning.

“You bet me you could get out,” Brenda explained, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside her. She brushed her roommate’s hair off of her face before reaching for something behind her. Jenna craned her neck to see where her hand had fallen, but her question was quickly answered by a flash of red and her friend’s fingers pushing firmly into the corners of her jaw as she pushed the thick, rubber ball past her teeth. She buckled it in a quick – almost rehearsed – motion. “Looks like you lost that bet, huh?”

Brenda got to her feet and moved to her dresser, flicking open her jewelry box. “Anyway,” she continued, “you fell asleep in the middle. It was pretty cute, to be honest.” She extracted a pair of silver hoop earrings, clicking one into place in the lobe before turning and adding, “you know you drool when you sleep.”

Flushed, Jenna hung her head as Brenda put on the other earring. She moved around to the side of the bed and took a seat, stroking the back of Jenna’s head. “It was funny,” she commented idly, tickling the skin behind her roommate’s ear with the pad of her thumb, “waking up this morning to find the whole room smelled like your cunt. And there you were, insisting you didn’t like this sort of stuff.”

As her roommate’s accusation felt more and more valid with each squirm, Jenna felt her embarrassment spread from her cheeks, coloring her chest in the glow of her new sexual discovery and the humiliation of having Brenda there to bear witness. 

“You’re lucky you’ve got me,” Brenda continued, her voice something of a purr. “Forget about lunch, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do, don’t we, get you up to speed on all the fun things you can do?” Jenna shivered as she felt her roommate’s thumb wander beneath her nightgown and brush the fabric of her panties with barely the tip of her fingernail. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to fuck you. We’re just friends, remember?”

Bumblebee by Ivy Kink

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Here’s another taste of my forthcoming collection of erotica. Next week, I’ll reveal the title and a bunch more details about the project. 

You have several strengths, bumblebee, but subtlety is not one of them.

I found the leash and collar you left on my desk, incongruous and comical amongst the endless drafts of dissertation and supply of partially dried highlighters. Like a dog who wants a walk in the park, dropping the instruments of her release at her owner’s feet in blatant suggestion. You’re precious, I’ll give you that. And so very, very determined. But subtle? Hardly.

Of course I noticed that the duct tape had been eased to the front of the usually innocuous drawer of household supplies, along with the scissors, coupled with the relocation of my riding crop to the closest, most convenient hook along the wall of my closet to be nestled amongst my belts. Surely this was the purpose of your sudden interest in home improvement, that I might notice it.

But, such efforts imply that I had somehow been neglecting you. And it is awful dramatic to confuse disregard with denial. I assure you, my refusal to reach for the crop (or the harness or any other item in this house that you’ve managed to somehow pervert to your own little fancies) has been entirely intentional.

But, if you want to be tied up so badly, I’ll certainly indulge you. 

I’ve taken the liberty of laying out a few things myself. Maybe you’ll recognize your old friends – the duct tape, the scissors, the crop, your leash and collar. Perhaps it’s been some time, but I am sure you are not completely estranged from the cuffs, the clamps and the blindfold.

Your face drops when I order you to pick up the scissors, but you comply and dutifully bring the blades toward the waistband of your jeans. 

“All right, love,” I interject, relishing the fact that you have obeyed, “you can just remove them. Fold them on your bed. But leave the panties on. Those get sliced off.”

You pout, “they’re new.” 

“And here I was, being generous,” I lament, reaching for the scissors that you have returned to the bed. You act fast, unbuttoning your jeans and tugging them down to your ankles. You kick off your sandals and shake the rumpled legs of your jeans from your calves. “The shirt, too.” You obey, unhooking your bra and sliding it from your arms for good measure.

I hold the scissors back out to you, handle-first with the sort of attention to detail and safety a mother exercises when handing such a device to her child. You huff and swipe them out of my hand, hitching them into your panties and exhaling anxiously with the first snip.

“I would’ve cut the sides if I were you, not straight-on down the middle,” I comment, taking a seat on the bed. “But I suppose you always do have a flair for the dramatic.”

You draw the scissors back and sip through one side, then the other with an indignant “hmph.“ 

“Let’s see them,” I say. You hold them up by the remainder of the waistband between your thumb and forefinger, disdainfully and just a little flushed. “No, come on, let’s see the crotch.” Your brows furrow and you take hold with both hands, stretching the fabric to reveal a small patch of wetness. “There’s the moneyshot,” I tease. You cannot meet my gaze.

I rise to my feet and reach forward, taking hold of your chin. Tilting your head as to bring your face in line with mine, I chuckle when your eyes continue to look away: a tiny rebellion. “Girl,” I scold and feel the smallest trace of a shudder tremor through your jaw, followed by a hard swallow. You so hate being admonished, even in a single harshly-delivered word.

“Yes, Mistress,” you choke out, eyes darting to meet mine. 

My grip softens. “The scissors, please,” I request and open my palm. Unable to look down, you cautiously tap the handle on the pad of my thumb before dropping them into my hand. I release your chin, but continue to stand closely. Your anxious breath tickles my collarbone. “The panties should be in your mouth. Doesn’t that sound about right?” 

You nod solemnly and ball up the fabric before pressing the wad past your teeth.

I grin and return to my seat on the bed, enjoying the show. “Now the duct tape. Three strips over that. Neatly.”

Before applying any of the strips of tape to your mouth, you rip each off and arrange it on the nightstand. Ensuring that the lengths were more or less equal, you press them one after the other onto your lips, bulging with the fabric of your panties. When you have finished, you shift your jaw in an attempt to demonstrate that you have done your job well and that the gag will not be dislodged.

Smiling, I reach once more for the roll of duct tape and wave it in front of you. “Around your head. Three times.” Your nostrils flare and you stomp your foot in protest, letting out a low whine below the tape. “Don’t give me that. Just pick up your hair and be careful about it.”

You collect the roll and carefully press the exposed end of tape to your right cheek. With your left hand carefully lifting your hair out of the way, you pass the tape around your head in three meticulous winds. I hand you the scissors and you snip away the excess before allowing your hair to once more frame your silent face. 

“There we are,” I sigh contentedly before tossing you the bundle of crocheted rope. “Tie your ankles. Not so tight you’ll cut off circulation. And take care with it, be a diligent little Girl Scout, bumblebee.” I wink. 

You groan and untangle the rope. First, you attempt to sit on the bed, but a meaningful glance redirects you to the door. Grumbling under the gag, you secure your ankles together and adjust yourself so your bare ass is settled on the carpet and your restrained legs are extended in front of you. Wordlessly, I toss you the handcuffs, which you catch with narrowed eyes. You click the first into position before sliding the other hand into the opened cuff.

“Nope, behind your back, love,” I interject and you roll your eyes, rearranging yourself until I hear the decisive click.

I sit down on the floor beside you, cupping your face softly. You welcome my grip this time, mistaking gentleness for mercy, and meet my stare. “Very good, love,” I coo, stroking your cheek through the layers of duct tape with my thumb, patting the skin that bulges slightly over the gag. “Now take a deep breath in and be even better for me.”

You squeal into your panties as I attach the first clamp, followed by the second, to your hard, eager nipples. Your arousal has betrayed you, allowing the tools of your torture to be applied so easily. I kiss your brow, dotted with anxious perspiration.

“Don’t give me that look,” I tease and give the chain a slow yank down to your navel. You squeeze your eyes shut, your face contorting deliciously with pain. “This one suits you so much better anyway.” I unhook my finger from the chain and remove my hand from your cheek before rolling you onto your stomach.

I relish the whine from behind your gag as your clamped nipples come into contact with the fibers of the carpet. “So, maybe I should explain tonight, bumblebee,” I begin, reaching for the riding crop. I trace the leather up the inside of your thigh, a threat that leaves an adorable trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

“It was so nice of you to send me such a cute little reminder,” I tease, using my free hand to push the leash and collar off of the bed, letting them fall in front of your face. “Did you want to be my little pet real bad, baby?” You nod eagerly and I scoop up the leash and collar, tossing them over my shoulder. “Too bad.”

“Hmm?” You exclaim behind the gag.

I draw the crop away from your skin before hitting the bottom of your left foot. Grunting, you grind your bound feet into the carpet. I settle my other hand on the back of your head to stroke your hair. Seeing you in such a state, I can’t help but chuckle.

“Awww, love, you don’t think you were going to get away with getting what you wanted, did you?” I land the crop on the back of your thigh, eliciting a squeal. “Maybe next time, bumblebee.”

“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…”