Page 33 of For Her Own Good

“Brat.”

She wouldn’t bother to argue, and her nod as she sucked the tip of the frozen treat would make me half laugh, half die inside because I’d want her so badly. Until she was done, I’d have to settle for wrapping my arms around her and holding her close, or perhaps clutching her delicious bottom in my hands and kneading, squeezing. Not spanking, because I wouldn’t want to jar her while she’s eating.

The picture is making me grip myself harder, to the point of pain, because I want to make this last. See where this story will end, because while her eating a Popsicle is sexier than it has any right to be, I’m certain my mind can come up with something even better.

Indeed, it does. Her rocking against me as she licks and sucks, and offering me some. I’d take a lick to please her though it’d be a bit sweet for me, but she’d reward me with a kiss, her lips and tongue cold but quickly warming as I explored her mouth, moved my lips against hers and licked the sweetness from her flesh. She’d squeak when the juice had started to melt down her fingers and rush to finish her dessert before any more of it was wasted.

When she’d finished, she’d lick her fingers too. One by one, savoring them, taking them deep into her mouth and making me fairly growl.

In my bed, I’m gritting my teeth because this is good, too good. But I can control myself, hold off, wait, because I can be patient. Especially when it comes to Starla, I will wait as long as it takes. Though in my daydreams, I’m guaranteed it will arrive, unlike in real life where I might wait forever for something that never comes. Also fine. Better than fine because I can’t ask for this, ever, never mindhaveit. But that makes me relish this all the more.

Done, finally, she would kiss me again, and this time I wouldn’t hold back, clasping her flush against me with one arm snaked around her waist while I’d bring my other hand down on her bottom, a solidthwackthat would make her jump and mewl, but then melt into my grip. Yes, she’d enjoy that.

“What do you say, little girl?”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

It’d be music to my ears, that, and a feast for my senses when combined with the shy way she’d smile at me. Despite my raw pleasure, I’d tsk at her and her chin would dip, her gaze questioning.

“Your manners could use some work, little miss. I shouldn’t have to remind you, now should I?”

She’d shake her head, clued in to the game we’d be playing.

“You know what the rules are. Bad manners means?”

“Daddy spanks me.”

“That’s right.”

Without me having to tell her, she’d drape herself over my lap, skirt barely covering her cheeks. Very few views can compete with that, but I’m a greedy bastard and I’d want more.

“Pull up your skirt.”

She’d do it, but with a whimper, because being forced to bare herself mortifies her. The sweet bite of embarrassment would add to the intensity, the wrongness of it all, which in turn would arouse her more. She’d shift, and I’d be able to smell her. I’d lay a hand at the small of her back and then begin, palm meeting the flesh of her behind which would give under the impact.

I’d take my sweet time warming her up because in the fantasy realm, I have all the time in the world to lavish attention on her bottom, to turn what flesh I can see a lovely shade of pink. And when it became too frustrating, I’d pull the darling fabric up, wedging her panties between her cheeks and exposing the rest of the flushed skin. She’d squeak when I do, and grind her pelvis against my thigh.

“Not yet, naughty girl, or I’ll make this a real punishment.”

The threat would do as I intend; the rocking would stop, but the squirming would not, and she’d makes a helpless, pleading noise.

“Hands behind your back,” I’d instruct, and she’d obey so I could gather her wrists in one hand and begin to lay into her properly. Not to hurt…not much, anyhow, but to remind her with the ghosts of bruises on her pale skin, of what we’ve done here. Leave her something to admire over her shoulder in the bathroom mirror, to graze with fingertips, or press into her bed at night to make the soreness come alive again, and send an erotic thrill through her with the memories.

The way my slightly cupped palm meets her bottom would be exquisite. I’d hit her over and over again until my hand would be tingling and her sounds would be a symphony of whines and gasps and all the things that’d send blood coursing straight to my cock. She wouldn’t be hurting in a bad way, she wouldn’t actually want me to stop—we’d have words for that, and she would have used them when we were first getting used to each other. Sometimes she still would, though not as often because I pride myself on the attention I pay to her reactions.

Finally, I’d stop the barrage, and delve between her parted legs with two fingers where I’d find her hot, swollen, and slick. Perfect.

I’d ease her onto her back, draw her panties down her legs and then spread them wide for me, followed by pulling the low neckline of her dress until it rested beneath her breasts. She’d flush and fist her hands in the blanket but she wouldn’t cover up or try to close her legs because she’s my darling good girl, and she’d know it no matter what I might say when we play our games.

“Time for my dessert since you didn’t leave me much of that Popsicle.”

She’d open her mouth to protest and I’d take the opportunity to push her panties between her teeth. I’d want her to taste what I’m tasting, how delectable the flavor of her own honey is, to experience what I’d be lapping up with my tongue. Wouldn’t hurt that I’d like the way her pleading sounds are muffled when she’s gagged, and she’d know how to stop if it got to be too much. Pinch my earlobe and it'd stop.

And then I’d be between her legs, spreading her pussy lips wide so I could lick and suck and nip at her, teasing round and round until I’d slick my tongue over her clit and then suckle, making her writhe beneath me, pressing her thighs to my ears so I could barely hear a thing, and my other senses would have to suffice.

My cock in my hand is aching, full to bursting, imagining what Starla would taste like, how she’d buck her hips into my face to ask for more, and though I’d wait in real life if I ever have the chance, I’m going to let myself come when she does in my dream. My eyes are closed and my grip is rough—I want this to be a bit punishing, the way I think about her, because she’d likely be mortified. Would wish I wouldn’t think about her like this. So, she’ll never know, I’ll never tell her, I’ll simply have her in my dreams while I take myself in hand, and then I can be a gentleman when I need to.

In my mind, her muffled cries are getting louder, she’s rocking her hips to get the contact she needs to go off, and goddammit, I would give it to her. Push fingers into her pussy to give her something to fuck up against and suck hard on the tiny bundle of nerves until I felt her cunt start to grasp and pull at my fingers, until her back arched and didn’t go down again for seconds, until her cries had grown near deafening even behind the gag.

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